


The Best Timeline

by AmethystTribble



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, But it's like a plot thing!, Canon-Typical Violence, Dimension Travel, F/M, Gen, M/M, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, POVs now come in both Original and Cool Ranch flavors, but like, highkey dealing with trauma and low-key shenanigans, this fic is shenanigans and dealing with trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22126633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: 'The Best Timeline; or, It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Loses an Eye'Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude spend a few months in a timeline where their respective traumas never happened, because mixing dark dimensional magic and a goddess's time powers is a bad idea. Even if the whole thing was an accident. But, really, their conundrum isn't all that bad. The only place this story has to go, after all, is up.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Edelgard von Hresvelg & Claude von Riegan
Comments: 143
Kudos: 225





	1. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! While not necessary, I'd recommend reading 'Snapshots from the Childhood of Hubert von Vestra Divided into Three Distinct Part' if you want to understand my head canons for Edelgard and Hubert's families, as well as how their lives progressed prior to Garreg Mach. That fic will be informing my writing of this story, though this is not a sequel to Snapshots by any stretch of the imagination. Thank you for your time!

Edelgard blinked her eyes open slowly, and found herself looking at the ceiling of her dorm room. She groaned at the sight, and turned over to throw a pillow back over her head. There was an ache behind her eyes, pounding incessantly. 

Riegan’s a dead man, Edelgard thought. 

She took a few more breaths, but there was still a noxious taste in her mouth. Forcing herself to sit up with her eyes firmly shut against the sun coming in through her window, Edelgard rubbed at her nose. She couldn’t quite smell the aftereffects of Claude’s poison, but her nostrils were burning. 

There was also an uncomfortable, crawling sear in the pit of her stomach. But that Edelgard couldn’t blame on Claude. She knew that pain came from dark magic, from Solon’s stupid orb. 

Edelgard groaned again, just imagining the reactions of her uncle and his toady when they learned she’d broken it. Her only consolation was that maybe Solon would finally stop being friendly with Claude, and murder him in retribution for its destruction. After he made her life miserable first, but… 

Solon could hang for all she cared. It was his damn fault Edelgard had been transporting the dark orb in the first place, and Claude’s fault for dropping his damn poison and drugging them all, and it was Dimitri’s fault for startling Claude. And the professor. It was technically the professor’s fault for tripping Edelgard and compromising her grip on the orb. 

But Edelgard was far more comfortable blaming Riegan and Blaiddyd. So she would.

Edelgard rubbed at her eyes and her stomach, trying to disregard the discomfort. If the orb and whatever it did had affected her too badly, surely she wouldn’t be back in her room. Hubert wouldn’t have allowed it, not without a trip to the infirmary first. And since she was not with the healers, he was likely the one who carried her back to her room. The last place she remembered being was on the ground outside. In fact, Edelgard’s last memory before falling unconscious was of the professor, a bright flash of green… and some sigils. Did the professor cast a spell?

Edelgard didn’t know. She threw her feet off the bed and decided it likely didn’t matter. 

Carefully, Edelgard breathed in and out to stave off the nausea. Dark magic tended not to agree with anyone, but she… It was purely psychological. Any and all adverse reactions to the sickeningly familiar crackling in her limbs was in her head. _You are greater than this_ , Edelgard reminded herself as she fumbled and reached for the hairbrush at her bedside.

She was greater than any pain or discomfort this world had to offer. She was in control. All Edelgard needed was something to steady herself, which was why she breathed in time with the strokes of her brush running through her hair. Slowly but surely, the repetition helped cull the rolling tide of her stomach and head. 

Edelgard fluttered her eyes open as she pulled the rest of her hair from behind her neck and over her shoulder. The world had stopped spinning, and now she could go about properly grooming herself and then investigating. 

_Ask Hubert about what transpired after the accident,_ Edelgard thought, turning to look at the particularly troublesome knot she couldn’t tug out, _and then words need to be had with Solon—_

Edelgard screamed. 

The choked, slightly hysterical shriek that fell out of her mouth startled Edelgard to her feet. The hairbrush tumbled out of her hands and hair, clattering to the floor, and her steps pounded against the carpet as she ran to her vanity. Edelgard stared back at herself in the mirror, but her fingers were shoved into and tugging at brown locks. 

_Brown hair,_ ashy brown hair, the exact color she’d so despised as a child, thinking it ugly, thinking she’d be much happier being blonde like her sisters. _Brown hair,_ long and straight and Edelgard’s hair, the hair she chopped off when it went white and cried for and hated and hated and mourned and hated and—

Why was her hair brown? 

Edelgard was shaking, and breathing too hard, and one of her hands was now tapping softly at the mirror to make sure it was real. 

It was good that her door slammed open in that instant. Otherwise, Edelgard didn’t know what she would have done with herself.

A girl tumbled into Edelgard’s room looking half-wild. As Edelgard turned to look at her, the girl with the great mass of wavy, black hair brandished a knife in one hand and a small fire in the other. She flicked her eyes around the room before landing on Edelgard, and they were green eyes, the likes of which Edelgard had only seen in one family.

“Carmilla?” Edelgard blurted out, at the exact moment the girl cried, “Lady Edelgard, are you okay?”

_“Carmilla?”_ Edelgard asked again, shriller this time, still tugging at her own hair. The world was growing dizzy again, but at least she had something to focus on, someone to act for. “Carmilla, what are you _doing_ here?”

“Ensuring your wellbeing,” Carmilla von Vestra snapped, sounding for all the world like it was a great inconvenience. “Now, are you well? Edelgard, you screamed.”

“I—” Edelgard stuttered, and she blinked at Hubert’s little sister. 

Why was Carmilla at Garreg Mach Monastery and not in Enbarr? Where was Hubert?

Before Edeglard could demand answers, though— or stop the world from spinning or stop ripping out her hair— a great force shoved Carmilla out of the doorway. She stumbled and hit the ground, knife clattering away and spell thankfully extinguishing. Edelgard leaped across the room to help Carmilla, moving on instinct. 

“Edelgard, are you well?” the new intruder called, and she looked up to see it was Dimitri. 

“I’m fine,” she sneered at him on instinct, as Carmilla stumbled to her feet at her side. Their arms were linked together. 

“The situation is under control, _Your Highness,_ ” Carmilla scoffed, her nose turned up and a scowl sketched on her face. But she was ignored.

“Edelgard, _your hair_ ,” Dimitri yelped, and Edelgard’s hand went right back to fisting her fingers in the curtain of brown that hung next to her face. 

Her hair, indeed.

But Carmilla simply snapped, “And what of it? You know ladies don’t just _wake up_ with their hair brushed, Your Highness. I think you can forgive Lady Edelgard for not being perfectly put together to your standards at dawn.”

“What? No!” Dimitri cried in confusion, bringing his hands up to his face as if he expected Carmilla to strike him. It wasn’t a wholly foolish reaction, as Carmilla had leaned forward and brought her hand up to threaten Dimitri, dragging Edelgard with her. 

“Then what precisely do you mean by _‘your hair’?_ Lady Edelgard’s hair is perfectly lovely, I’ll have you know. Why don’t you know it? Your Highness, that isn’t _any way_ to speak to your—”

“Woah, woah, are we really insulting ladies this early in the morning?” another voice called from the hallway.

It was Riegan, and when he tucked his head in through the doorway, his gaze instantly found Edelgard. His eyes widened at the sight of her hair, as well. But he didn’t fuss or shout. Instead, Claude simply wrapped his fingers around the still sputtering Dimitri’s bicep and pulled. 

“You know, I don’t think we should be here, staring at a pair of underdressed ladies. Not really proper, is it, Dimitri?”

“That wasn’t my intention! But Edelgard—”

“Is fine,” Edelgard said, not taking her gaze off of Claude’s artificial grin or shifty eyes. Something was wrong here. He knew it, and she knew it, and Dimitri in his own inconspicuous way knew it. But Carmilla von Vestra stood at Edelgard’s side, and she was an unknown. They would have to proceed with caution. Edelgard would have to proceed with caution. 

“Now, please, leave my bedroom,” she snapped. 

Claude mercifully pulled Dimitri away, no complaints from either of them. Carmilla slammed the door shut in their wake. 

“I never!” Carmilla huffed, and then she turned to look expectantly at Edelgard.

But Edelgard didn’t know what Carmilla wanted from her.

She’d not spoken to this girl in years, not since they were children. She’d certainly not seen Carmilla looking so… womanly and familiar in tandem. As little girls, they’d dressed and bathed together, and slept in the same bed, but that was… a decade ago. Now, Carmilla was grown, and in a state of undress. She wore only a nightgown, with her hair half-brushed and half-tied up, and what looked like… make-up. There was a dramatic streak of eyeliner marring the left side of her face, as if Carmilla had rushed from her chair at the sound of Edelgard’s distress while putting it on.

And yet, the vain sister that Hubert complained about didn’t seem concerned that she was disheveled in the company of the Heir of the Adrestian Empire. Carmilla made a dramatic and annoyed face at Edelgard like they were in on some joke together. Like they were still friends. 

Not even Hubert was so informal with her, and here was _Carmilla_ … waltzing around Edelgard’s bedroom with only a quarter of her makeup on as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Edelgard bite back the yell of frustration and hysteria that was bubbling in her chest Instead, she opened her mouth and said the first thing that came to mind that wouldn't utterly compromise her.

“Is that blue eyeshadow?”

Carmilla blinked back at her, and finally looked a little confused at this situation. She brought her fingers up to touch at the corner of her eye, and stood up a bit straighter.

“Oh, um, yes. Do you not like it?”

Edelgard laughed, just a bit of an edge in her voice that was probably panic. _What is happening?_

“It suits you,” she said instead. 

And Carmilla smiled. A lopsided grin spread across her harsh and angular face, and Edelgard’s breath caught. She’d forgotten… how Carmilla smiled. She’d forgotten that for all Hubert and Carmilla looked like one another, the sister was far more unabashed with her emotions. Mostly, Edelgard had forgotten that anyone from her life before the Insurrection— and Uncle, and Fhridiad, and crests and blood and screaming— could still smile like that. 

Edelgard whirled away from Carmilla, and turned back to the mirror.

Her hair was still brown.

Steps hurried towards Edelgard’s back. She felt a warm hand with thin, long fingers squeeze her shoulder, and it wasn’t Hubert’s. It wasn’t Hubert, it was Carmilla. Carmilla was here, and Edelgard’s hair was brown, and something, _something_ had happened, something strange and wrong was going on. 

“El?” Carmilla von Vestra asked, and Edelgard shuddered. Had she given Carmilla permission to call her that? A lifetime ago, had Carmilla called her ‘El’ like Edelgard’s family had? She could no longer remember.

“Are you okay, El? You look… ill, should I call for Professor Manuela?”

“No,” Edelgard snapped, tone definitive. She didn’t know what was happening, but she didn’t need a physician looking at her body. 

“No, I’m fine. Just a little on edge. I had a nightmare is all. It shook me pretty badly, I guess.”

Edelgard kept her eyes firmly set on the mirror, on her own forehead and her brown hair. _What a nightmare to wake up from,_ she thought, watching Carmilla shift behind her. Edelgard had to fight the urge to scratch at her wrists, but she couldn’t stop how her hands were shaking. Carmilla surely noticed; if she was even half as observation as her older brother, she noticed.

But that had always been the problem, hadn’t it? Carmilla wasn’t as observant as her brother, and she had bought her father’s and Arundel’s and Aegir’s lies hook, line, and sinker. Everything was _fine_ in Carmilla’s life and world, there was no grand conspiracy or experimentiation or sanctioned murder. Carmilla couldn’t be trusted; she was one of them. That’s why they weren’t friends anymore, Edelgard suddenly remembered.

Carmilla said, “A nightmare?” so softly, though. Concern was etched into the lines of her creasing forehead, and she bit her thin, pale lip. She didn’t take her hand from Edelgard’s shoulder, but rather squeezed tighter.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Edelgard replied coldly, “I just want some time to myself, to reorient. And make myself presentable. Fix my hair.”

Carmilla didn’t laugh. Instead, she just looked more concerned, and Edelgard cursed herself. She’d miscalculated in her attempt to put Carmilla at ease.

“You’re stressed,” Carmilla declared, “and worried, aren’t you? Listen, El, I know I promised to help you with this little affair, but if you’re already having regrets, I can just as easily—”

“Enough, Carmilla!” Edelgard all but yelled, turning around to level her harshest glare at the girl. Carmilla looked shocked and disapproving at Edelgard’s outburst, and that was her weakness. She wasn’t like her brother, Carmilla flinched. Hubert was taller than her, and harsher than her, and meaner than Carmilla, and emotionless and blooded and tested, and he didn’t even blink at Edelgard’s worst mood. It was why he could be trusted. It was why Carmilla couldn’t.

This little girl didn’t scare Edelgard. But the idea that Carmilla of all people might know about the Flame Emperor… 

Marquis Vestra could keep her on a leash, and Arundel had the Marquis’ leash. Edelgard could contain this. She could.

_Where is Hubert?_

“Just go,” Edelgard said, this time more contained.

“I’ll fetch you for breakfast in an hour,” Carmilla said at length, and Edelgard nodded. She’d give her this concession. If Carmilla fancied herself Edelgard’s vassal for the time being… Well, Edelgard didn’t like it, nor any potential way this could have come to be, but she could deal with it. It would be better to keep Carmilla close. 

With one last miserable look back, Carmilla left Edelgard’s room, closing the door firmly and quietly behind her. That was when Edelgard’s knees went out and her breath rattled in her chest. 

Hand clenched firmly on her vanity, she slowly lowered herself to the ground. Edelgard was breathing too fast and her hands were shaking like leaves in the wind. But she pulled herself together long enough to gather her courage. She forced her eyes open long enough to look at the sight she’d been avoiding since she noticed the color of her hair.

Edelgard slowly pulled up the sleeves of her nightgown. She gazed, long and hard, at her wrists and forearms. Then Edelgard finally let herself start to cry. Because her skin was smooth and clear and, and, and… Not scarless. But there was no bundles of overlapping scar tissue hiding her veins. She could see her _veins._

She cried harder.

Edelgard pulled her arms up to her chest, where her heart was beating and banging against her ribcage, and the blood it was pumping… Her blood was no longer tainted, was it?

Her hair was brown, her arms were clear, and her blood was her own. 

For the first time in years, the parts that made up Edelgard were just… El. Just El. 

Edelgard cried, as quietly as she could, trying to stop and pull herself together. But the tears just kept coming and she wasn’t sure why. They just continued to fall, as Edelgard hugged herself and wondered if she’d finally woken up from a long nightmare.

_______________________________________

Claude’s day had started weird, and it was only getting weirder.

As he pulled the prince away from the princess’s room, a smile plastered on his face for the small crowd that had gathered, a hundred scenarios were running through his head. He was trying to add up all the _wrongs_ that had plagued his morning. There was his own bedroom and _everything_ in there, there was the scream, the unknown girl that Edelgard was dealing with, and then there was— as Dimitri so eloquently put it— _her hair._ But before Claude could address that, he had to figure out who could be trusted.

“But Claude,” Dimitri implored, bumbling his way right into exoneration, “Edelgard’s hair, it’s not— Just yesterday! It was white wasn’t it?”

“Your Highness!” a thoroughly scandalized voice piped up. It was Ferdinand von Aegir, standing in a robe with his cheeks puffed out.

“Edelgard has always had perfectly lovely brown hair. Now, while it is true that some of her royal siblings are in possession of hair like spun white gold, Edelgard’s visage is largely inherited from Her Majesty, Lady Patricia, who has hair even darker than her daughter. I should expect you of all people to know this, Your Highness! It does not do for a nobleman to be so unobservant, especially in regards to—”

“Yes, thank you, Ferdinand!” Claude chimed in, straining to still sound friendly and inviting. There was always something about Ferdinand that reminded Claude strongly of Lorenz, which ignited his flight or fight response. This nobleman simply didn’t do it for Claude, especially when he was being delusional.

Or were Claude and Dimitri the delusional ones?

It certainly seemed that way.

Though they had stuck their heads in the hallway, Marianne and Hilda had already retreated back to their rooms, and Sylvain was nowhere to be found. Caspar von Bergliez, though, was still standing next to Ferdinand and looking at Dimitri with utter bewilderment. 

“White hair? Can people’s hair change color that quickly?” he asked.

“Not without damaging it,” Lorenz scoffed from down the hall, leaning in his own doorway, “The substances involved would have to be potent to make it white.”

“Or magic,” Felix said, similarly half in and half out, “Annette says there are some spells that do that.”

Lorenz hummed, and Claude watched him smile slightly in amusement. 

“Yes, she’s correct,” he said, and there was something… off about Lorenz’s whole demeanor. “But, and forgive me again if I am mistaken, I do not believe that Lady Carmilla would use such techniques to change Her Highness’s hair white and back so quickly and cavalierly. Even if it was to… ahem, confuse His Highness.”

“She would not!” Ferdinand declared helpfully.

“Your Highness,” Ingrid finally interjected, looking bereaved. “Are you well? You’re not sick are you?”

“You better not be!” Felix called.

“No,” Dimitri implored, but he now looked dangerously unsure of himself. Claude tightened his grip on his arm.

“I think our dear prince might have been a bit deep in his cups last night, or something of the like.”

“What? No! Ingrid, no, I wasn’t—”

“I’m just going to take him back to bed! Don’t worry, I’ll settle him.” 

Claude angled back towards Dimitri’s room, and tried to pull the miserable prince along. The Black Eagle boys took this as a queue to leave, and Lorenz returned to his room after shooting Claude another odd look. Ingrid lingered, though, and Felix pushed out of his doorway to come and stand in Claude and Dimitri’s way.

He reached up to grasp at Dimitri’s chin, and tugged his head down.

“Felix—” Dimitri choked in shock as the man Claude knew to be little more than a disgruntled and distant swordsman studied Dimitri’s pallor and eyes. Felix squeezed Dimitri’s chin, and, though a scowl twisted his mouth, there was blatant concern around his eyes. 

“You don’t look ill,” Felix declared, “but watch yourself, Dima.”

In Claude’s grasp, Dimitri gasped. He straightened and tensed, like an arrow bolt had hit his spin. Dimitri’s mouth gaped as his breathing stuttered, and his muscles wound up, tight as a wire. The prince’s fists curled up like he was about to hit something. Oh gods, Claude hoped not. 

As Dimitri waffled dramatically, though, Felix simply turned away, paying neither of them any mind. He went back to his room, and from the sound of a door closing down the hall, Claude would guess that Ingrid had returned to her morning routine, as well.

Claude took advantage of Dimitri’s state of complete shock, and walked them both back to the prince’s room. He unceremoniously shoved Dimitri through the doorway, and closed the door behind them. Claude leaned against the door and let his shoulders sag, just a little. 

He closed his eyes and opened them again just a quickly. Claude swept his gaze around the flustered prince’s room. It didn’t seem out of the ordinary, nothing too odd. But Claude didn’t exactly have a reference for what Dimitri’s room looked like yesterday, so that meant nothing. 

Unfortunately, that meant that the only thing left to do was jump right in.

“So, we’re both in agreement that Edelgard’s hair was white yesterday, right?”

Dimitri’s attention whipped around to Claude, from where he’d been studying his own desk.

“Yes,” he implored, “Yes, oh, Goddess, her hair was white! I’m not— I’ve not—”

“Gone insane? No. Or, well, maybe, but then we both went insane at the exact same time. And Edelgard, too, I think.”

Claude had been given no more than ten seconds of observation of her this morning, but the way Edelgard kept her hand up near her hair, the drawn look on her face, how tense she was next to that stranger, _the scream_ … It meant something. Not to mention, Edelgard was one of the three other people who were there during the last thing Claude remembered. Which aligned perfectly with Dimitri, another culprit, also losing his mind over the color of a girl’s hair.

“I think we need to find Teach,” Claude said. The air of relief around Dimitri was palpable, and he opened his mouth. But Claude held up his hand. 

“But before that, we need to get our facts aligned. Something is… something is wrong. And everybody in that hallway seemed to be in on the joke, except you, me, and maybe Edelgard. But have you noticed anything else? Some of this could be explained away as a prank…”

A series of very elaborate pranks, that ranged from the nonsensical to the dangerous. 

Claude carefully closed his eyes again, in order to get a grasp on his bubbling panic and mounting fury. Neither would do him any good, not yet. But if this all was a deliberate act on someone’s part, if Claude’s identity had been compromised… Someone must know. Why else would someone go to the trouble of decorating Claude’s dorm room like it belonged to an Almyran prince?

The only logical reason someone would do that was if they were trying to expose and ruin him all in one fell swoop.

The hitch in that theory, that potential conspiracy, was Dimitri and Edelgard. What would dying Edelgard’s hair brown reveal? Had anything gone wrong for Dimitri this morning? Who would be aiming for all three of them? 

Where was Teach, and were they experiencing anything like this?

Which brought Claude right back to the accident in the courtyard yesterday. Potentially that collision— that mess— could have been someone else’s fault, but such a mishap was too… chaotic to be really helpful to any schemer. There were easier ways to knock someone unconscious if you wanted to remove them for a few hours. Not to mention, a grand, outside conspiracy didn't really account for the effects of the magic Claude could still feel buzzing in the pit of his stomach. 

What spell had Teach cast? What was that orb Edelgard dropped, and what kind of magic was the noxious cloud it released? 

Could that have… caused all this? 

Claude opened his eyes again to see Dimitri staring at him intently. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were sharp, and he might have been thinking as intently as Claude. Dimitri let out a long sigh.

“I… This morning, I have noticed something wrong. Or just different, I suppose, but I’m not sure how this could have transpired. My body is different.”

Claude pressed his lips tightly together.

“Uh, what precisely do you mean by that?” he asked, trying desperately not to look down at His Royal Highness, Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Heir Apparent of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus’s crotch.

Dimitri hesitated just long enough that Claude did flick his eyes down, but then the prince spoke.

“The scars on my body are gone. Many of them, at least. The most prominent ones.”

For a moment, Dimitri’s face scrunched, eyes squeezed shut and nose flared and teeth bared. His fingers grasped at the fabric of his nightshirt in front on his chest, and Claude could hear it ripping. It occured to Claude that he had never seen Dimitri without his gauntlets on, but now the prince’s hands were on full display. And that there wasn’t anything obviously wrong with them.

“All my scars from the Tragedy of Duscur and— and the aftermath have disappeared from my body. As has the pain that accompanied them, as if the injuries were never there at all.”

Claude bit his tongue, and considered what to say. 

“Dimitri,” he mumbled, “I’m so…” but ‘sorry’ didn’t seem right. “Are you okay?”

Dimitri didn’t answer, anguish written all over his face. He lowered his hand from his torn shirt, but his fingers wouldn’t uncurl from a fist.

“That’s not all,” he whispered. With heavy but careful steps, Dimitri lumbered over to his desk, which was strewn with papers and quills, wax and a candle and a bottle of expensive blue ink. Dimitri ignored most of it, instead grabbing an envelope. He held up the paper, and Claude saw that the letter had been opened and the wax seal was broken. But the crest and the griffin were still recognizable.

“This is my house’s seal,” Dimitri said, sounding distant and miserable, “The royal seal of House Blaiddyd. No one can use it except... Except for the royal family. It could be my uncle, of course, but I don’t— Claude, my uncle never writes; never. And I don’t remember opening any letters from him. Why is the seal broken?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Dimitri, but…” Claude paused, and took a long, deep breath. What did that broken seal mean, indeed. What did the tapestry on Claude’s dorm room wall mean, the one depicting the sigil of his father’s house, the Almyran royal dynasty’s symbol, the brand Claude had worn his whole life until he buried it under the sand and crossed the border… What did that mean?

“Are you going to read it and find out?” Claude asked, because that would really be the only way to start finding answers.

But Dimitri just grimaced and held the letter tighter.

“Claude…” he said, “if my scars from the Tragedy of Duscur are gone— Could, could the other injuries from that day, also, have been undone?”

Claude’s breath caught in his throat.

_No… He can’t be suggesting—_

“ _Dimitri—_ ”

“Felix was so nice to me!” Dimitri exclaimed, a wild, nervous look in his eyes, “and he hasn’t called me- not since Glenn died, Felix hasn’t—”

Dimitri collapsed in the chair next to his desk. He doubled over and shoved his head between his knees. The letter was still grasped in his hand, wrinkled and mandhandle, and Dimitri was banging that fist against his head. 

_This is getting hard to watch,_ Claude thought. He briefly considered running to find a Blue Lion, before immediately remembering that none of them could be trusted yet; they might not even know what Dimitri was talking about anymore than they knew Edelgard had white hair. But Claude didn’t know what else to do. He hardly knew Dimitri! They weren’t _friends_ , not allies, they were barely even classmates most days. Claude wasn’t equipped to handle the prince’s grief. He didn’t have anything more than a foreigner’s perspective on the Tragedy of Duscur, and could only guess at who Glenn was.

Claude’s heart rate was speeding up, and he could basically feel this situation slipping out of his grasp.

“Do you want me to read it for you?” Claude whispered, just barely inching forward. It was the only comfort he could offer.

Dimitri just shook his head wildly in response, and gasped out, “What if it’s signed by my father?”

Dimitri lurched in the chair, and looked at Claude like a man begging for a divine revelation. And Claude just felt like he was drowning. He’d never felt this out of his depth, had not wanted to go running home like this in years. He silently begged, _Mother, what do I do?_

But Claude was beginning to fear that _his_ mother might be a little farther away than Almyra. Because if a dead king was alive, and Edelgard was a brunette, and all of Claude’s school papers were signed, ‘Khalid Claude ibn Hisham al-Aziz’... 

“What sort of twisted joke is this?” Dimitri asked.

And Claude had no answer for him. 

When the silence stretched on too long, Dimitri bolted from his seat. He began to pace. Claude remained huddled next to the door as Dimitri walked a hole in the carpet. He found himself shaking, so Claude pulled his arms around his stomach and tried to seem small. Funny how, just three months ago, he arrived at the seat of a religion he didn’t believe in, with no familiar faces or familiar comforts in sight, wearing a name that made him feel like a child playing pretend… And Claude had thought that was as alone as he could ever feel. 

“And if it’s real!” Dimitri suddenly yelped, startling Claude and ripping his gaze up from the patch of rug he’d been trying to burn with his stare. 

“What then? What does that mean? How could this be possible?” Dimitri hissed. The detached part of Claude— the part that never stopped spinning like a miller’s wheel and warning him of every danger— was grateful that Dimitri was at least keeping his voice somewhat down. They didn’t need any neighbors to hear this conversation.

Claude and Dimitri stared at each other for a few moments. Eventually, though, the wet look in Dimitri’s eyes and the oppressive silence broke Claude.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Dimitri. We have to figure it out, or we— Or we’ll never know how to fix it.”

Dimitri drew in a harsh gasp. He closed his eyes, as if steeling himself. And then— quick as a whip— Dimitri ripped the letter open. He tossed aside a whole handful of papers in order to get to the last, to the page where the signature would be written. 

Then the last page fell gently from his grasp.

Dimitri collapse, his knees buckling and shoulders sagging. Claude lunged forward to grab him, trying to make sure Dimitri hit the bed rather than the floor. Pulling and shifting, Claude was able to settle the two of them, his arm around Dimitri’s shoulders. Dimitri’s hands were cradling his head, and he was rocking himself back and forth. The were both still shaking, and breathing harshly.

But under the gasps for air and his own heartbeat, Claude could hear mumbling. It took him a few seconds to parse out what Dimitri was saying.

“But how? I can still hear them. I hear you, I’m listening. How is this possible?”

A miserable laugh was startled from Claude chest. That didn’t sound good. Gods, what a secret. At any other point in time, the nonsense Dimitri was spewing might actually be interesting. But as it was, Claude just wanted to cry. 

Just loud enough to be heard, Claude whispered, “We need to find Teach.”

_______________________________________

After Claude left him alone— after he had stopped crying, and Claude promised they would meet later when he had more information— Dimitri was ashamed of himself. It was wrong of him to place his emotional burdens on Claude, wrong of him to breakdown so spectacularly. If only Felix could see him…

But Felix was not quite Felix right now. He’d been curt and concerned and _physical_ with Dimitri. He could still feel his chin burning from Felix’s hand; he hadn’t touched Dimitri in well-over a year. No one touched him much these days, except for Dedue— mostly when duty called for such things— and Sylvain— which meant little, as he was intensely physical with everyone. That Felix of all people held Dimitri… 

What would this… this _version_ , perhaps, of Felix say to him about his red eyes and wet cheeks? About how he couldn’t stop shaking, how his hands clenched with barely restrained violence, how everything inside him was mounting to the point where Dimitri wanted to—

Dimitri stood. In a frantic rush, he dressed, draping his cape sloppily and pinching his fingers in the claps of his gauntlets because of his haste. But Dimitri was still thrumming, and being delicate right now seemed impossible. Despite that, despite his sensibilities and better judgement and desire to _disregard_ , he paid special mind to not step on the discarded papers of his father’s— of _the letter_. As he stumbled towards the door, Dimitri couldn't help but bending down to snatch up the last page.

He pocketed his father’s signature, the one that said, _With all my love, Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd._

Had his father always been so informal? Dimitri could no longer remember.

He quickened his steps as the urge to _release built._

The sun had risen, but just barely, when Dimitri arrived at the training grounds. There were a smattering of people about, but none of the usual faces. No Felix, Caspar, or Leonie, nor Catherine and Shamir. Just Dimitri and a host of people he didn’t recognize.

 _Maybe that’s for the best,_ Dimitri thought as he chose a practice lance and found a space to start his drills. 

Claude had said, “If our classmates think that Edelgard’s hair is brown and that girl is a student here, who knows what else they think.” Dimitri interpreted that as ‘if you’re being written to by a man who claims to be your father, these people might believe that he is your father’. And that was not a conversation Dimitri was prepared to have. Not while the word ‘imposter’ was slithering in his ear and the accompanying anger was simmering in his blood.

No, Dimitri needed to go through his forms and strikes and exercises until he burned with physical strain, rather than anything else. His head needed to clear, before breakfast and people and Claude and Edelgard. Before he had to look at the signature in his pocket again, and feel the anger and… hope battling. 

He gave a particularly nasty strike to the straw dummy.

There was no hope. There hadn’t been in years.

Dimitri whittled away at himself and the time until the first bells for food sounded. By then, he was thoroughly exhausted. It was only as he wiped at his brow and put away the practice spear that Dimitri realized that he hadn’t seen Dedue all morning. 

His body froze where it stood. 

Where was Dedue?

He always came to Dimitri before breakfast, whether they met at the training grounds or the dorms. Such a commotion as the one this morning would have surely gotten back to Dedue by now, he would have gone searching in the aftermath. Now that Dimitri’s head was clearer— not so many voices were clamoring for his attention— it seemed inconceivable that Dedue hadn’t knocked upon his door shortly after the fiasco with Edelgard.

Edelgard, who had brown hair and was attended to by an unknown woman. One who was decidedly not her vassal, Hubert. 

Where was Dimitri’s vassal?

Where were the scars on his body from the lashing in Duscur?

A shudder ran up Dimitri’s spine, and he swiftly turned around to hurry towards the dorms. 

In all his concern about his father’s signature and words and _being alive_ , it hadn’t crossed Dimitri’s mind. But if there were no scars… If there had been no regicide… There might be a blacksmith’s village in Duscur right now where a happy family still lived. Duscur might still live, Dimitri realized as his feet pounded against the stones.

He took a sharp turn towards the commoner dorms.

If Dimitri’s father still lived, he might have traded him for—

“Ashe!” Dimitri shouted as he caught sight of the boy exiting his dorm room. Only as he slid to a stop in front of Ashe— who looked very startled— did Dimitri realize he had been running. But he could not stop now.

Dimitri pointed to the room besides Ashe’s, Dedue’s room. 

“Who’s room is that?” he asked.

Ashe glances back and floundered for a moment. But he recovered quickly.

“Oh, uh, well, that’s Cyril’s room! Why do you need to know, Your Highness? If it’s not rude to ask! I don’t mean to pry!”

“It’s not rude,” Dimitri muttered absently, staring at _Cyril’s_ room. Who was Cyril? 

Dedue wasn’t here. Dedue wasn’t at Garreg Mach, and Dimitri didn’t have scars, and Father was alive. That must all mean… Dedue must be happy. He must be back in Duscur, everything Dedue had ever wanted was back in Duscur and it was probably all still there in this fever dream Dimitri had woken to.

Everything was well.

So why did Dimitri suddenly feel so empty? 

What was Dimitri supposed to do without Dedue? Without Dedue, there were no late night chats in the library, or stupidly intricate, wasteful breakfasts, or training sessions without judgement. Dimitri stood alone in his grief without Dedue, and he stood alone against the voices of the dead.

Dimitri felt a sudden rush of anger at the stranger occupying his friend’s space, at whoever his vassal was in Dedue’s place. He hated the coldness at his shoulder and the quiet air where Dedue usually stood. For a brief moment, Dimitri was angry at Dedue, who had abandoned him now of all times, in his moment of need. 

But the anger flickered out just as fast, and all that was left was grief and fear and loneliness.

 _I need Dedue,_ Dimitri thought, then rapidly shook his head.

How selfish a thought! 

Dedue was home. Safe. Loved. He must be in Duscur with his family, as Dimitri somehow had his family…

But Father hissed, _Avenge me,_ and the fantasy crumbled just a quickly as it had started to take root.

None of this was real.

 _It’s not real,_ Dimitri tried to remind himself. But he wasn’t sure what he was talking about, which sense he was scolding: his sight or his hearing.

“Your Highness?” Ashe asked, thankfully shaking Dimitri from his thoughts. Ashe looked so concerned, and Dimitri felt another stab of shame that he was worrying everyone this morning. But everyone and this situation was worrying him, so Dimitri couldn’t be as contrite as he would be normally.

“Ashe, may I ask you another question?”

“Of course, Your Highness!”

Dimitri took a breath, and asked, “Do you know where the other members of our house are this morning? Not Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix, I spoke to them earlier, but— but the girls and—”

And who? Cyril? Dimitri might be willing to take that chance, but that girl who stood in Hubert’s place… Maybe Claude’s vassal had been replaced as well. Dimitri could not guess.

Luckily, Ashe gave a slight smile, as if Dimitri hadn’t said anything too odd; just a little odd.

“And me?” Ashe chirped, “Well, I’m about to head to breakfast. I imagine the girls will all be there already, unless Mercedes got distracted. Or Annette got distracted. But Namine should be there! Would you like me to fetch the girls? Are we having a meeting?”

“Maybe,” Dimitri said distractedly, already walking away, “I must speak with Claude and Edelgard first. Thank you, Ashe.”

 _Namine._ Dimitri had never heard that name before. 

But today, for some reason, she was in his house; she was one of his people. 

She had replaced Dedue, and for that Dimitri wanted to hate her. But she wasn’t real, he reminded himself. There was no need for hated, for anger or resentment. Whoever— whatever— this Namine was, she was a Blue Lion today. 

Dimitri needed to identify the girl, so as not to offend her later should they run into each other, or to tip the others off that Dimitri’s view of the world was different from theirs. Then he needed to find Edelgard and Claude. And then they needed to find the professor. And then…

One problem at a time. Dimitri had to approach this day one step at a time, or his heart might just beat out of his chest. First was Namine. 

The dining hall was teeming, as was typical for this time of the morning, before class and chores. Dimitri’s eyes swept through the hall, catching sight of familiar faces and cataloging names. He could not guess who else might be missing or how. 

There was the princess of Brigid and one of the other Black Eagle girls. Claude’s vassal was still present. Lady Hilda Valentine Goneril was easy to spot because of her bright hair, but there was an unfamiliar boy seated next to her, in the Officer’s Academy uniform. Cyril, perhaps? The people surrounding them were all familiar, though, all Golden Deer. Ingrid and Sylvain were bickering in line for food, and at a table in the corner sat Annette, Mercedes… and a girl who must be Namine.

She was from Duscur. That was the first thing Dimitri noticed, her dark skin and grey hair. 

For a moment, a rush of fear shivered down Dimitri’s spine, the fear that something horrible had still happened. That this time, it was just a different Duscurian alone in the world and forced to go to Faerghus. But no! It didn’t take but a few more moments of evaluation for that scenario to start to not make sense.

Namine wore golden earrings, not dissimilar to Dedue’s. But her earrings were larger, and decorated with shining green gems. Her hair was tied back with a gold clasp, also encrusted with jewels and ostentatious and _expensive._ Bracelets adorned her wrists, a grand pendant rested on her chest, and there was a finely spun, thin scarf dangling from her shoulders. 

This girl was noble. There was no other way she could be dressed so lavishly, whether she be Duscurian, Faerghusi, or Dagdese. Nobility and wealth were the same all over, in Dimitri’s experience, as were the symptoms of poverty and misfortune. 

Victims of massacre couldn’t dress that way.

Dimitri didn’t remember much about the actual political ins and outs of his father’s negotiations with Duscur prior to the Tragedy. But as he stared at Namine, all he could think was, _There is peace. Father did it._

Was Namine their princess? The daughter of some other noble, or a specifically chosen champion, an ambassador? What was her goal at Garreg Mach, why had her people sent her here? Were she and Dimitri friends?

He didn’t know, he didn’t know. But he wanted to.

Maybe Namine knew Dedue.

_Slaughtered!_

The shout came from Glenn, and it was so defeating it made Dimitri flinch.

 _Of course,_ Dimitri thought as he watched Namine laugh at something Annette said. This girl was dead. Or probably dead. Deposed and destitute and maybe _dead._

Dimitri turned away and stalked back into the hallway, heart banging against his chest. He rubbed at his eyes, and tried to draw breath into his shuddering lungs. The paper in his pocket was suddenly burning. 

What a strange illusion this all was. How intricate and sweet and _compelling._ Were it not for the guilt clawing at his heart, the reminder in his ears… Dimitri might just sink into it.

But no. Dedue wasn’t here. And that was wrong. Wrong and insidious and concerning. It was a stab through Dimitri’s chest, because to think! He’d almost let himself trade Dedue from some gentle promises and pretty lies.

The shame of it made a strangled cry get stuck in his throat.

His father was dead and the girl named Namine _wasn’t real._ She wasn’t dead nor here, because she had never existed. She was just some kind of illusion, a dream, a trap, or maybe just a symptom of Dimitri’s finally ruined mind. 

Lady Patricia was whispering in his ear, soft, soothing words that said, _They don’t matter, darling, none of them are there. We matter, we’re waiting for you, dear. Release us, save us, avenge us. Dimitri. Dimitri,_ “Dimitri,” his stepmother said.

He was shaking.

“Dimitri!” 

“I’m trying,” he whispered to the woman who was his mother in all ways that mattered. “But they won’t go away, the vision won’t go away.”

“Your Highness!” a shrill voice shrieked, and Dimitri jerked at the new voice. It was coming from outside.

He looked up, and for a moment, Lady Patricia stood before him. But the swirling colors drained from the world, and in the place of his stepmother stood Edelgard. Her hair was still brown. Had she always looked so much like her mother?

 _Oh no,_ Dimitri thought.

Beside her, the tall girl from this morning loomed. She glared at him from thin, narrow eyes, and then she hissed, “Where are your manners this morning, Your Highness? Are you ill?”

The stranger stepped closer, and Dimitri lurched back. But she wouldn’t allow it, and the girl grabbed him by the cape to jerk Dimitri forward. She then placed her other hand on his forehead. Dimitri shot a fearful look at Edelgard, who seemed just as shocked and confused. Neither of them could do more than stand helplessly.

Then a shiver ran down Dimitri’s spine.

But the sensation was not cold. Rather it was warm and soft, and originated from his forehead. A calm descended upon Dimitri, as his limbs stopped shaking and his heart rate slowed. The sensation reminded him strongly of… Mercedes.

“Oh,” Dimitri muttered, flicking his eyes up to look at the girl’s hand, which was glowing with a faint, white light. “I was unaware Faith magic could have such effects.”

The girl rolled her eyes. 

“Which is why you don’t study Faith, obviously. Magic can stitch open gaping wounds and stop you from feeling that your arm is missing. I can calm your muscles and nerves with no hassle at all. You’re thinking of infections, infections, Your Highness. Bacteria can’t be healed by Faith magic, because it’s an outside factor, separate from the body. Ask Martritz about the phenomenon, if you’re curious. Or if you need some help not making yourself so sick. If you feel that way again, you’re going to ask one of us, understood?”

Dimitri watched the stranger pull her hand away, and— though her scowl was disgruntled— her eyes were gentle. She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for an answer.

“Understood,” he said softly, moved. “Thank you. For your concern and help, I… Thank you.”

“Of course,” she snorted, turning so as not to look Dimitri in the eyes. “Really, how could I let you suffer? You’re practically a member of House Hresvelg.”

A sharp exhalation from behind the girl’s shoulder drew their attention back to Edelgard. Dimitri watched as instant understanding and regret came upon the girl’s face at the sight Edelgard’s confused and affronted expression. But she merely shifted her weight and turned to face them both with a hand on her hip.

“Lady Edelgard,” she said in a low, exhausted voice, “we have to keep some veneer, don’t we? Even Prince Dimitri deserves that much respect. No offense, Your Highness.”

“Oh, um, none taken.”

Edelgard gave a cough, and a nod. 

“Of course, Carmilla,” she said, voice smooth, though her head was tilted up and her eyes were looking away, “I’m simply still… not at my best this morning. Regardless, forgive me, Dimitri.”

“No need for forgiveness!” Dimitri said, silently thanking Edelgard for giving him the girl’s name. “I’m not entirely well this morning either, as you have seen.”

“Honestly, do I have to drag you both to the infirmary?” _Carmilla_ groaned. She reached out to rest a hand on Edelgard’s shoulder, which Edelgard suffered with a soft pinch between her brows. After a moment, though, Dimitri was forced to watch how Edelgard stepped callously away from them both, and Carmilla’s face fell, hurt blossoming across her features. Edelgard stalked towards the dining hall without a glance back.

“I’m fine. I simply haven’t had breakfast yet. Are you two coming?”

Dimitri and Carmilla followed her, dodging students, and weaving between chairs and tables. Everyone around them was chatting in what coalesced into a dull roar, and Dimitri could feel eyes on him. Odd, how Garreg Mach’s dining hall almost felt like enemy territory.

“Have you seen Claude since this morning?” Edelgard asked as they settled in line for food. Dimitri shook his head.

“Not for a few hours, but he said he would be at breakfast.”

Carmilla scoffed, and nudged Edelgard’s shoulder to direct her attention.

“Speak of demons,” she hissed towards them, the words carrying so much vitriol that Dimitri turned to look at Carmilla in surprise. She was glaring at the doorway that led to the pond courtyard, wherein Claude stood chatting to Leonie Pinelli. 

He caught sight of their stares, and waved.

“Ugh,” Carmilla muttered. She turned away, while Edelgard merely hummed and beckoned Claude over. 

He jogged up towards their spot in line, Leonie following after them. 

“Good timing!” Claude said, “I was just about to tell Leonie about how we all need to talk to Teach.” 

Edelgard nodded and crossed her arms, then turned to Leonie and said, “Quite. So? Do you know where the professor is?”

Dimitri watched Leonie’s face pinch with what could only be described as _utter confusion._

“Uh, which professor?” she said, causing Dimitri to suck in a breath and look towards Edelgard and Claude. Both of their expressions were closed off, blank and then quickly schooled into something affable. Neither of them spoke, despite Dimitri’s looks and silent begging.

Instead, it was left to Dimitri to say, “ _The professor,_ surely you understand.” 

There was only one who deserved such a title after all, whose presence was so grand that they hardly needed a name. But from Leonie’s grimace, she didn’t understand. She didn’t know who Dimitri was talking about.

“Sorry, it’s still no ringing any bells. Is this some kind of joke? What does it have to do with Captain Jeralt?”

Claude gave a soft, breathy laugh, and he opened his mouth to speak. But before he could, Edelgard interjected.

“He means Byleth.”

“Oh!” Leonie exclaimed, “If you meant the captain’s kid, why didn’t you just say so? Wait, are they going to be a professor or something? I wouldn’t mind having them instead of Professor Hanneman.”

“Uh, no,” Claude said, smiling just a little too rigidly. “At least, not to my knowledge. I think Dimitri was just trying to be a bit too respectful. Probably a habit from the extra lessons Byleth gives on occasion.”

“I get it now. Do you think—”

“Leonie. Do you know where Byleth is?” Claude said forcefully, causing Leonie and Carmilla to look at him oddly. But no one questioned him on it. 

Instead, Leonie cautiously said, “I think they’re on a mission with the other knights.”

“The Knights of Seiros,” Dimitri whispered dimly, but he was ignored.

“Where?” Claude all but hissed.

“I don’t know,” Leonie cried, looking bereaved, “Go ask Sitri! Or Jeralt! They’ll probably know where their kid is.”

“Who’s Si—” Dimitri started, but then stopped at the feeling of a grip on his arm. He glanced down, and Edelgard’s gloved hand was grasping his bicep so tightly that even through his armor, Dimitri could feel her fingernails. Despite her intense warning to Dimitri, though, Edelgard’s face was perfectly amiable and clear. 

“Thank you, Leonie,” she said, “We’ll take the search from here, you’ve been most helpful.”

“If you’re sure,” Leonie muttered as she walked away, but Dimitri could barely hear her over the buzzing in his own ears. 

No. No, things could not be this wrong. 

Edelgard’s hair was brown, Father’s signature burned in his pocket, Dedue was gone, strangers walked the halls of Garreg Mach. And the professor was out of their reach.

Each lost in their own thoughts and worries, Dimitri shared a miserable look with Edelgard and Claude. He could not guess what conclusions they were drawing. As the world and people shifted into sinister shapes around him, all Dimitri could think was, _Where are we, Professor?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I should be writing: My massive silm/asoiaf crossover, the 'Hubert and Seteth talk' oneshot, 'Adrestia's Lost Generation', Not this.  
> Things I am writing: This.
> 
> Welcome to AT's newest au extravaganza! It should progress exactly like it says on the tin (reasonably length'd, shenanigans and trauma, the day is saved) but I've made a liar of myself before, so we'll see. In the meantime, if you enjoyed this fun little premise and what I'm doing with it, I'd love it if you left kudos and/or comments. I'd love to know if anyone's interested in me continuing this, honestlt, as I do have other commitments ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thank you so much for reading either way!


	2. Dimitri I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future rulers of Fodlan get their bearing in a Fodlan that isn't their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read, but I would love it if someone was interested in doing so!

After a quick and tasteless breakfast, Dimitri let Claude usher him and Edelgard into an unused classroom. It was medium sized and had no candles, the only light came from filmy windows. There was a blackboard, a few chairs, and one large table. There was also a bookshelf, where Claude was fiddling with a satchel.

As Edelgard– still outside– coaxed Carmilla into letting them speak alone, Dimitri ran his finger over the dust covering table before him. The professor would occasionally have them sit around one table in order to facilitate discussion, but obviously the furniture in this room had been deemed unnecessary for a long time.

Why?

If he’d entered this room yesterday, would it still be abandoned?

Dimitri didn’t know. He didn’t even know who his vassal was, or why they didn’t follow him as loyally as Dedue did. As Edelgard’s Hubert and Carmilla did. Who would be so lax?

 _Felix_ , the answer came to Dimitri in a flash. Felix was almost certainly his vassal right now if there… if there had been no Tragedy.

As children they used to talk endlessly about how Felix would be Dimitri’s vassal, his right-hand, his most loyal knight and advisor. And then Ingrid would get jealous, and she and Felix would fight over the right to stand at Dimitri’s side. Once, Felix ended up crying after Ingrid hit him for saying, “Dimitri’s my best friend! You’re supposed to stay with Glenn anyway, you can be his knight!”

Sylvain had laughed and separated them, taking Felix away to put snow on his throbbing cheek. Dimitri had promised Ingrid she could be his knight, but she just cried and cried.

“But if Felix stands on you’re right and Sylvain is on the left, what about me?”

“Behind?”

She’d cried harder, which made Dimitri cry, and in the end none of their parents made any of them feel better. They just went to sleep, then got up and never addressed the fight ever again, the way children tend to. But that day had stuck with Dimitri. It had been one of his worst memories up until the Tragedy. Ingrid’s tears, and the vision of Sylvain sopping wet and smiling and shivering, his mother’s grave, El’s goodbye… Really not much sorrow at all.

Who was he, Dimitri had to wonder, when those were still the significant weights on his shoulders? He didn’t know. He still hadn’t decided if he wanted to know.

Edelgard slammed the door to the room behind her, startling Dimitri from drawing patterns in the dust. 

“What precisely do you want me here for, Claude?”

Claude finally looked up from the various tomes he was placing on the bookshelf, and grinned at Edelgard.

“You have somewhere else to be, princess?”

Edelgard didn’t respond to him, nor did she really react beyond the slight twitch in her jaw that Dimitri noticed. Instead, Edelgard pulled out one of the dusty chairs and sat down with all the grace and control of someone expecting to command the table. Dimitri had always admired that about her, even when they were children. Though her effortless regality had made him feel rather inadequate at the time. He had been the heir to the Kingdom his entire life, and yet he had never been able to act with half the refinement Edelgard managed. 

Even now, it was galling to watch Claude and Edelgard exchange ostensibly polite but simmering stares, all but battling for the right to lead their little meeting. Meanwhile, Dimitri stood placidly, beneath both of their competitive notice. Claude and Edelgard stood and spoke as people ready and willing to lead, to rule, to competently manage a nation; meanwhile, some days, Dimitri wasn’t sure anything about him but his title had ever inspired his people. 

For Claude and Edelgard to have started so far behind him– both having only been named heir later in life– but be so far ahead… 

_Are you my son or not_ , Father hissed, and Dimitri had to take deep breaths. 

“Do we know of anything that could have caused these… disparities?” Dimitri asked suddenly, looking up from his hands.

Claude and Edelgard broke away from their staring to glance at him. Dimitri merely busied himself with pulling out his own seat, and Claude followed, dragging the leg of a chair out with his foot. Once they were all sat, Claude kicked his shoes up into another chair, and leaned back with his hands behind his head. 

“I’m open to suggestions,” he said, ostensibly cheerful. “I’ll be the first to admit that my magical knowledge is a bit lacking. Is there anything that could do all–” Claude gestured vaguely. “This?”

“An illusion, perhaps. Lady Cornelia has spoken before about the uses and applications of illusions.”

“Did you truly listen to her?” Edelgard drawled, sarcasm dripping from her tone, “An illusion of such a grand and intricate scale would be nearly impossible to maintain, not without scores of people with magical ability sustaining it. Even then, the level of detail… the knowledge that would have had to go into this…” 

She trailed off, and Dimitri watched how her hands tightened on her biceps. He looked over towards Claude, whose face was similarly pinched. Claude met Dimitri’s eyes then flicked his gaze away again.

“I admit I don’t love the idea of someone knowing the details of my body either. But what else is there?” Claude asked.

Silence fell upon them, and Dimitri could hear the anxious tapping of Edelgard’s foot. He could see the iron set to her jaw, her dark gaze. There was something going on behind her eyes. There always was, Dimitri had noticed, something hard and calculating and hidden. She was so reserved about her true intentions, in all things…

“The professor has spoken before,” Dimitri blurted, grasping at anything he could, just to keep the conversation going, “about time. They’ve said before that ‘there’s always time’. For them, at least, is what I inferred. It feels to me that some great change in the past has caused this present. But is such a thing as time magic feasible?”

Claude just threw his hands up.

They both turned their gazes to Edelgard, the obviously most magically adept. She took a long, deep breath. 

“I wouldn’t know. But…” she said, flicking her gaze away. “I have some rudimentary knowledge of space related magic. There’s theories surrounding other dimensions. Though, admittedly none quite like this. If it has to do with the past, I don’t know. But I can think of nothing feasible but dimensional magic.”

“Other dimensions?” Dimitri asked, scooting to the edge of his seat with wide eyes. He’d heard tales of such things, though no scholarly work. “Like the one the Goddess lives in?”

Claude snorted.

“I thought the Goddess lived on a star,” he said.

“It’s a metaphor,” Dimitri and Edelgard immediately snapped at the same time, before turning to look at each other in surprise.

Claude snorted again, eyes widening, and he put his hand over his mouth. He nearly looked like he was giggling.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to step on anyone’s religious toes.”

“There are none to step on,” Edelgard sneered. “Besides, dimensional magic has nothing to do with the Goddess, it isn’t Faith.”

“That’s a funny way of putting it,” Claude said.

“Excuse me?” Edelgard asked with such contempt that Dimitri felt concern bubbling up in his stomach. Why couldn’t they get along? Why must they always antagonize each other?

“Well, Reason isn’t really the antithesis of Faith, it’s not like they have nothing to do with each other. So that’s a funny way of putting it. And something’s been bothering me all morning. I’ve taken a few hits from Lorenz in training, I know what Reason magic feels like. This burning, shivering aftereffect… I can’t help but wonder if it’s that infamous Dark magic Seteth doesn’t want us reading about. So how do you know so much about it, princess?”

Edelgard paused for a second, before flicking her hair over her shoulder and scoffing.

“Hubert dabbles.”

“Oh? And how does the Church feel about that?”

“They’re more than willing to use what they disapprove of for their own ends.”

 _This is ridiculous_ , Glenn’s voice hissed, and Dimitri couldn’t help but agree.

“But I just have to wonder about the intentions involved–”

“Both of you!” Dimitri suddenly snapped, drawing their attention back to him. “Please, this is not the time.” 

Neither Claude nor Edelgard looked pleased at him interrupting their verbal spar, staring at him with equally blank expressions of discontent. Dimitri couldn’t help but find it odd how they covered their contempt differently, a smile versus an unfeeling mask. Neither of them could make their eyes lie, though. 

Dimitri let out a deep breath and ducked his head, just to soothe their ruffled egos. _Maybe_ , he thought in annoyance, _they seem so confident because they have such fragile pride._

“Edelgard,” he said, turning to address her, after which Claude’s feet hit the ground in a move that seemed disgruntled to Dimitri. “Are you implying we are in another dimension?”

Edelgard said nothing, but gave a stiff nod after a moment. 

As Dimitri considered this development, they lapsed into silence. Another dimension.

This was not like the Goddess’s realm where the good and pious came to live with Her. This was not like the eternal flames from some of the more heretical, non-canonical religious texts. The world Dimitri had woken up to wasn’t even similar to the realm beyond the veil that his nurse used to talk about either, with all the tales of glamour and deceit and returned, but hollow treasures. Whatever had changed Dimitri’s body… it could not just be an illusion.

Surely he would feel the bumps of scar under the vision? He didn’t know. But were this some perfect construction made by an enemy to torment him– torment them all, he supposed– why replace Dedue with some new person? Why not allow Dimitri and Dedue their friendship with none of the tragedy?

There was no obvious answer… not unless this truly was another dimension, where people lived and made choices and time flowed on without concern for Dimitri’s best possible reality.

Claude suddenly let out a hissing breath, drawing Dimitri and Edelgard’s attention.

“You know, I can’t help but wonder what that funny little orb you had was, princess. You know something we don’t?” Claude said, and he had slumped in his seat. His face was leaning against his fist and his eyes were half-lidded. Claude no longer smiled.

Dimitri turned back to Edelgard in time to see her own eyes narrow, and she huffed.

“I know little more than you. Tomas merely asked me to deliver the orb to an acquaintance of his in town, and I complied. Perhaps you would know, being such good friends with our dear librarian.”

“But was it Dark?” Claude asked, like a man who already knew the answer.

And Edelgard had no choice but to look away from his piercing gaze. 

“Yes,” she said quietly at length, “I could feel the Dark magic while I was carrying it. Which is what drew me to this conclusion initially.”

“Great,” Claude muttered, once more lapsing into silence.

Something was still nagging in the back of Dimitri’s mind, something about the professor and magic. Because though he could feel the odd sensation of Dark magic that Claude described, there was also a warm and… familiar sensation there. Dimitri had never asked the professor how they knew where everyone on the battlefield would be before they moved, not thinking it his business, thinking that the professor was so skilled and brilliant. But if this dimension was unlike the ones studied and theorized about…

“Can we assume that the professor is where the… the other Byleth was?” Dimitri asked, shaking his head. They needed the professor for this. “As we appeared in the places of our dimensional counterparts?”

“Stands to reason.”

“About that,” Edelgar suddenly said, and when Dimitri glanced at her, she looked sick. Her face was so pale, and all her words sounded like she was dragging them out. “I don’t believe we’re ‘in their places’. I– I would guess that we are now– _inhabiting_ the bodies of our counterparts.”

A low moan of distress fell from Dimitri’s lips, and Claude said, “That’s not invasive at all.” His face looked drawn, and he started gnawing on his lip as Dimitri turned his gaze away.

He stared down at his lap, and dug his fingernails into his thighs. His hands were covered, mostly out of habit. There had been gauntlets in his room, but ones meant for battle. None were acceptable for everyday wear, Dimitri could now see that. How odd he must have looked at breakfast, eating with clunky riding gauntlets on. 

Carefully, Dimitri unclasped them. He placed the metal husks on the table, slowly observing how his fingers moved. No burn scars. No ache, no constant reminder. These were somebody else’s hands.

A flash of fury wrenched Dimitri’s heart, and he hated this body.

He hated this boy who bore his name, but none of his wretched deformity.

 _He’s dead_ , Lady Patricia whispered.

 _You killed him_ , said Glenn.

 _Just like you killed us upon the fields of Duscur_ , Father spoke, but it was backed by a chorus of thousands of voices. 

Through clenched teeth, a terrible laugh fell from Dimitri’s mouth, and it almost felt like a sob. He dug his fingernails into the clear, pale flesh of his other hand, trying to get a grip on himself. But it wasn’t coming easily.

“Dimitri?” Edelgard asked, her voice reaching him from far away. But it was easier to focus on her than the buzzing noise that was whatever Claude was saying. Edelgard almost sounded like the other ghosts, and when she snapped, “Dimitri!” for the second time this morning, he was able to fight past the clamoring to respond.

“Forgive me,” Dimitri choked out, still half laughing. “This is all just… so much. Too much.”

A firm grip snatched his wrist up, and it was Edelgard’s small, gloved hand. Her grasp was incredibly strong, and it surprised him enough to make him stare up at her. 

_She looks like a different person_ , Dimitri thought, seeing how the darker hair made her skin look pinker and her eyes warmer. The brown hair made her cheekbones softer, and her mouth was less severe, even as it was twisted into the same scowl Dimitri had seen a hundred times in the last few months. 

This girl was as much a ghost from his past as anyone, though a different type of wraith from the white-haired woman of stone who had arrived at school with his old friend’s name. Edelgard was a ghost in a dead child’s body right now, just like Dimitri. 

“I understand,” she said, staring at him with her mother’s eyes, and he believed her. Only she could really understand this. But did Edelgard even realize that Dimitri had played a part in her mother’s death? Was that why she was so cold to him? “But panic solves nothing. Letting yourself be blindly led by emotion makes you weak, and I will not suffer weak allies, Dimitri. Find your resolve.” 

A woman of stone, in a softer girl’s body. Dimitri felt like little more than a cluster of broken shards in a miraculously whole vase. But he needed resolve. He needed to hold himself together. He knew this. Dimitri knew this.

_Hold on in order to lead your people._

_To restore Duscur._

_To avenge the fallen._

This was no different. He couldn’t… Not yet, Dimitri couldn’t shatter yet. 

He took a long, deep breath. 

_After all_ , Father said, _if the Tragedy did not occur here, you can discover why. And if you know what was different… you can find_ who.

Dimitri finally sat up, a sudden sense of purpose falling over him. Yes… that could be his resolve. Edelgard was right, he could not be weak when the dead were still restless and there was so much to do.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice still shaky, but more grounded. “Thank you, I– Yes, I’m better now. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t–”

Edelgard said nothing, merely snatching her wrist back and nodding as Dimitri straightened his posture.

“Don’t worry about it, Your Highness,” Claude said with a pinched smile. “We’ve all been feeling rather unsteady this morning. I don’t know about the princess, but I balled my eyes out for a few hours.”

Dimitri did not believe that, and fixed his gaze on the impressive array of books Claude had gathered to prove his point. He could not have had time to do so much preliminary research and spend ‘a few hours’ emotionally compromised. Not after attending to Dimitri’s… less than dignified state. But Claude just kept smiling at Dimitri and Edelagard’s flat looks, and Dimitri would not rip that veneer away from him. 

Dimitri cleared his throat, and sat up straighter, trying to regain some composure.

“Thank you, the both of you. You are very kind, and I promise to return your generosity,” he said, and Edelgard and Claude looked away awkwardly. They reminded Dimitri of a pair of street cats being offered a place by a warm fire, and the sight made him smile ever so slightly. 

“Have either of you discovered anything of note this morning? Things that pertain to this… dimension we are in, and the differences. Besides the obvious, of course,” Dimitri said, swiftly moving the conversation along.

Claude took the opportunity to stand, and walk over to the bookcase. Then he returned with two tomes, one emblazoned with the Empire’s seal and the other the Kingdom’s. Claude slammed them down on the table, and leaned his hands on top of them. 

“These,” he said, “are the record keeping books. Every time something worth keeping track of happens, one of the monks writes down a new entry for it in one of these, based on region. These volumes catalogue everything that’s happened in the Empire and the Kingdom in the last ten years, 1170 to 1180. Dimitri… I took the liberty of looking up the Tragedy of Duscur. Most of what it says for 1176 is about Duscur, but it’s all peaceful talks and trade deals. As far as I can tell, your father is still alive.” 

Dimitri stared at the blue book in front of him, and he closed his eyes briefly. He’d already guessed. His father’s letter was folded in his pocket, and this body was unblemished, and the Duscur woman had sat pleasantly in the dining hall. Dimitri had guessed. He held out his hand for the historical tome anyway, and Claude slid it over to him.

“I’ve done some digging for you, as well, princess,” Claude continued as Dimitri flicked through the pages and pages of agricultural notes and petty conflicts. Ashe’s adoption had been written down, he noticed. “But you see, I’m going to need some help from you. A little honesty.”

“ _What_ precisely do you need, Riegan?”

Dimitri found year 1176. He skipped forward a few months.

“I mean, Lady Edelgard, that we are all going to need to be level with each other. We can’t be kept in the dark about certain things, for the sake of understanding what’s going on around us and figuring out how to get home.” 

_King Lambert, Prince Dimitri, and entourage travel to Duscur for a diplomatic trip._

_Negotiations between Duscur and Faerghus begin._

_The Treaty of Tedea ratified by King Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd of Faerghus and Chieftain Mauretania Zapaturi of Duscur._

_King Lambert, Prince Dimitri, and entourage return to Faerghus._

It was like looking at his wildest wishes laid out neatly in four sentences. How… very disorienting. Dimitri would say he didn’t even feel like he was in his own body at this point, but he wasn’t. Though he read the passages thrice, none of it was processing for Dimitri. He just wanted to laugh, this was all so ridiculous. 

The voices had gone suspiciously quiet.

Dimitri shut his eyes in order to take a few deep breaths.

“Get to your point, Riegan,” Edelgard said, and Dimitri closed the book in order to focus on them again. He’d read more… later. 

“His Princeliness and I have very obvious differences surrounding us. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what any of this has to do with your hair.”

Dimitri’s eyes went wide as a small rush of mortification and panic exploded in his chest.

“Claude, don’t–” he started to snap, but he was interrupted by Edelgard’s refined, dainty, deeply disdainful chuckle. She had put her hand over her mouth, her lips were curled into a cruel smile, but her eyes– set upon Claude– blazed.

“In the interest of _being honest_ with each other, I’ve always wondered why you were so ignorant of Fodlani gossip, Riegan,” Edelgard said, and her face and voice flattened out as she spoke.

“I didn’t think anyone was unaware, as well publicized as the whole affair was. I was _ill_. The stress of fighting off the disease turned my hair white when I was thirteen. In fact, my whole family was ill. None of the rest were as successful as me at combating it. Most of my siblings are dead from it.”

Claude’s mouth fell open briefly, but he shut it again before he pulled back from the table and the Empire’s historical tome with wide eyes. Edelgard took the opportunity to leisurely grab the book, and then she lazily went about thumbing through it. Dimitri merely sat back in his chair and closed his eyes again. 

He remembered House Hresvelg’s illness well. The news had been very thoroughly distributed, though Father was especially meticulous about receiving reports. For Lady Patricia’s sake, Dimitri would now guess. Though, he hadn’t realized at the time that when Father announced at the breakfast table that another imperial prince or princess had succumbed to the mysterious disease that haunted House Hresvelg– from the Emperor to the smallest prince– that they were talking about his stepmother’s other stepchildren. Dimitri used to burrow under his covers in fear and wonder if he would get sick as well, sick like his mother, sick like all of Fodlan’s other princes. 

“But not here,” Edelgard muttered, drawing Dimitri’s attention back to her and her brown hair and healthy pallor. “My brothers and sisters aren’t dead here, nor crippled or fever mad. I had guessed…”

The ‘but’ in her tone went unvoiced. Dimitri reached for Edelgard, resting his hand on her shoulder to try and offer her comfort as she had for him. But Edelgard just shrugged him off without even looking in Dimitri’s direction.

“No Insurrection either,” Edelgard said blandly as she tossed the book back onto the table. “So, does that answer your question, Claude?”

“Yeah,” Claude muttered, and there was grief on his face. Dimitri couldn’t help but wonder if Claude truly had not known about Edelgard’s siblings. How was that even possible?

Edelgard was one step ahead of Dimitri’s curiosity, though, and she said, “Which brings us to you, Claude. What precisely has changed for you? Please share, for honesty and trust’s sake, so that we might better understand this situation.” 

Though she had said nothing but the ostensibly polite, Dimitri blushed at her words as if Edelgard had cussed Claude like a sailor. But while Dimitri felt awkward and nervous at the tension, the cold words merely brought Claude back into form. He smiled so wildly his eyes closed. 

“That was the purpose of this conversation, and I’ve got nothing to hide. At least, not here. So, here goes. You might have noticed I’m a little bit different from the other students at Garreg Mach.”

As Edelgard snorted, Dimitri considered reassuring Claude that no one thought him odd, that he had nothing to be worried about. But he decided not to interrupt. Claude, seemed to bear this difference as a mark of pride.

“Well… there’s no delicate way to ease into this. But the reason I don’t know about the old Fodlani gossip, _Your Imperial Highness_ , is because I’m not originally from Fodlan. My mother is, but I grew up in Almyra,” Claude said, and his grin was… fragile. And drawn. His shoulders were held so rigidly.

Silence reigned for a few moments, then Edelgard hummed. 

“That would explain it,” she muttered as she placed a hand beneath her chin. She did not seem terribly surprised.

Dimitri simply let out a quiet, “Oh.” Though it caused a pang to echo in his chest, he understood why Claude would hide such a thing. Dimitri had seen the cruelty, quiet disapproval, and simple misconceptions directed at Dedue. It was not kind.

“So can we assume that your mother is the missing Lady Riegan?” Edelgard asked.

Claude gave a small laugh. 

“I thought everyone already did. But, yeah, my mother is Tiana von Riegan. I’m going to have to ask you to hold your horses until the end of this little tale, though, because the next part is the fun potion of this little reveal.” 

Claude’s smile took an astoundingly bitter turn, and he said, “It seems things are pretty different here, in regards to Alliance-Almyran relations. Things in House Riegan are pretty different here, too. In fact, you two aren’t the only ones with newly alive, previously dead relatives. I am apparently not heir to the Riegan Dukedom, that would be my miraculously revived Uncle Godfrey. Doesn’t mean I’m out of a fancy title, though, just means that at the Academy I don’t have to pick the more relevant one.” Claude paused, and then took a drawn out breath. 

“You, my dear prince and princess,” he said very gently, and Dimitri thought he might have heard a bit of a plea in his voice, “are looking at Claude, son of the King of Almyra, heir apparent to Almyra.”

“Oh!” Dimitri exclaimed again, this time louder as he jolted in his seat. 

A prince! 

“Why would you need to hide such a thing?” Dimitri said, because he could understand Claude’s reticence to admit his heritage had his father been a commoner, a man with no material protection from scorn or sabotage. But the marriage of a noble lady to the monarch of a foreign nation? That was not too odd. Why had such a thing never been announced, surely House Riegan would receive wealth and prestige for such a connection?

“I do believe,” Edelgard said, her eyes narrowed at Claude, “that the Alliance lords would balk at the idea that their brand new heir is also the heir to their most aggressive historical enemy.”

“Too true,” Claude sighed with an exaggerated shrug, “I think the words my grandfather used were, ‘Gloucester’s going to think it’s the prelude to a full scale invasion’. Fun stuff.”

Dimitri shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense to me. Forgive me for the somewhat coarse language, but Claude, you are a political alliance made flesh. Surely that can only foster cooperation.”

“Not if said person prefers one side of their inheritance over the other.”

“That’s quite the take, princess,” Claude suddenly snapped, a strained twinge to his cheer. He raised an eyebrow at Edelgard that wasn’t entirely friendly. “Care to explain how you came to that conclusion?”

Edelagrd paused for a moment, then looked away to pick at a piece of her hair. 

“Forgive me,” she said, “I was conflating situations cavalierly. I didn’t mean to imply anything about you.”

“I can’t help but wonder what you were implying then. Well, I can promise you both that I’ve got no intention of starting a war. Quite the opposite in fact. But to answer you, Dimitri, things like hatred and fear don’t have to make sense. In fact, more often than not, they don’t.”

Dimitri supposed that was true. Had he not been saying for years that what happened in Duscur followed no line of logic? The slaughter served no purpose, and had been justified sloppily.

“Whatever the case, Claude,” Dimitri implored, his mouth tilted down and his eyes wide, “you are our friend, and comrade. Even if no one else desires to, I hope that you and I can forge peace between the Kingdom, the Alliance, and Almyra.”

Claude’s sharp smile softened at tad. 

“Thanks, Dimitri,” he said gently.

Unconsciously, they both turned to look at Edelgard as one, who remained quiet under their joint gaze. She was still watching Claude, considering him with a curious glint in her eyes. 

“Indeed,” she drawled at length. “You remain as you ever were, Claude, an enigma. But one with fewer secrets. That can only be beneficial to our cooperation. I’m interested in seeing how this proceeds.”

“Why does everything you say have to sound so ominous?” Claude quipped, but he gave a breathy laugh, as if truly amused and somewhat surprised by it. He turned away from looking at Dimitri and Edelgard, and Dimitri couldn’t help but notice his shoulders were less tense now. 

Perhaps something good had come out of this debacle.

“That is settled,” Edelgard claimed, drawing Dimitri’s attention back towards her. “But there still remains the matter of the professor. I imagine something similar has changed for them in this dimension, namely in regards to Leonie’s mention of the Knights of Seiros.” 

“Teach is a knight! I’m gonna be honest, I can’t imagine it.”

“There is also the matter of their mother,” Dimitri chimed in. “I do believe Leonie mentioned something to that effect. Sitri, was the name?”

“Yes, I think that’s correct,” Edelgard said.

 _The professor’s mother_ , Dimitri thought. What would the woman be like? She must… Well, Dimitri supposed she probably looked like her child. Were she and the professor close? Was the professor a different, slightly more _open_ person with the support of a more stable family?

“I think we can safely assume that the Bladebreaker never left the Church here,” Claude said. “‘Cause of his wife you think?”

“Probably,” Edelgard muttered in reply. She and Claude continued to chat and exchange observations and theories, but it faded into soft hum noise while Dimitri sat back in his chair. There was something odd about this situation that was niggling in the back of his mind.

The professor’s mother lived. Edelgard’s siblings had never grown sick. Claude was able to claim his dual heritage. The Tragedy didn’t occur. 

“Why are all of our lives better here?” he whispered to himself, unconsciously drawing Edelgard and Claude’s attention. 

“Huh?” Claude hummed, prompting Dimitri to look up and speak louder.

“We have found ourselves in a dimension where the lives of our counterparts are inarguably better. How? Why?”

Claude made a quiet noise of contemplation, then bit his lip. He said nothing, while Edelgard tapped her foot. 

“It does seem like too much of a coincidence,” she replied, her voice wary and taunt. Edelgard looked to the both of them to reply, but Dimitri couldn’t think of anything to say. Why were they here, in a dimension that matched none of the established theories, that operated almost– but now quite– like a wonderland? Was this some sort of sick punishment? A truly contrived accident?

A reprieve from the Goddess?

But before Dimitri could further spiral down the path of religious contemplation, Claude spoke up.

“This isn’t quite on the same topic,” he said, “but that does make me think. It’s about the professor, and something you said earlier, Dimitri. Did either of you get a glimpse of that spell they–”

“Claude!” 

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

A sudden, shrill voice could be heard coming in from the outside, crying, “Claude! It’s almost time for class! Cyril’s going to kill us both if we’re late.”

“Hilda,” Claude muttered. 

Dimitri hadn’t known Lady Hilda had such strong lungs! Her arm strength, though, he was well acquainted with from the mock battle, all of which she was using to bang upon the door.

“We better go for now,” Edelgard muttered. She reached for the Adrestian records. “Should we meet again at lunch?”

“Yes,” Dimitri said, also grabbing his tome. But Claude halted him at the last second, grabbing Dimitri's wrist.

“Wait,” he said, “You’re not supposed to take those out of the library.”

“Claude!” Dimitri gasped indignantly. 

Edelgard and Claude ignored his outburst of disapproval. Instead, Edelgard palmed her tome and walked over to the bookcase across the room. She shelved it next to the other books there, then turned back towards them.

“So what you’re saying is that we shouldn’t be caught with them.”

“Precisely,” Claude said with a grin.

Dimitri gave a distressed sniff, and muttered, “You are incorrigible.” But he, too, placed the records on the bookshelf. There was knowledge that he needed in there, that he had to have ready, private access to. Surely Tomas could do without the records for a few days. After all– even though Dimitri felt bad for the thought– it was partly his counterpart’s fault that they were in this situation. And it wasn’t like the books were really lost, or stolen. Just borrowed without permission. 

_Oh no_ , Dimitri thought after he made that justification to himself. _I’m beginning to reason like Sylvain._

But he couldn’t afford himself time to regret making himself complicit the library book theft. Dimitri had to grab his gauntlets and follow Claude and Edelgard out the door, where Hilda was still yelling. 

“Finally!” Lady Hilda huffed when they opened the door, putting her fists on her hips. “What were you three even doing in there?” 

Claude groaned dramatically, throwing his head back.

“House leader drudgery. Paper work and class transfer rules and such.”

“Bleh,” Hilda said, buying the lie with ease.

Behind her, though, Carmilla loomed, and she said, “Is that it, huh?” The suspicion and disapproval practically dripped from her tone. It made Dimitri’s face color with shame, as if he had been caught doing something naughty.

But Edelgard didn’t flinch at her vassal’s ire, and merely went, “Yes, Carmilla,” with an equally droll and exasperated voice. 

Carmilla rolled her eyes in response. 

“Come on then, Lady Edelgard. I don’t want to be polishing silver for Professor Seteth because we’re late.”

Dimitri took in a sharp breath, and looked at Edelgard and Claude to see if they too were shocked at this newest revelation. They didn’t appear to be, though Dimitri supposed they might just be better at masking it. Edelgard still grimaced, but whether that was at the mention of Seteth or the silver polishing, it was impossible to tell.

“Very well, let’s go.”

Edelgard and Carmilla turned to leave, but Carmilla paused after a few steps.

“Are you coming Your Highness?”

“Huh?”

“Your class is next door to us this morning, isn’t it?”

Dimitri had been under the impression that Wednesday mornings were for private study in the library for Blue Lions, but it appeared even their class schedules were different.

“Of course,” he blurted out, “Forgive me, my head is not with me this morning.”

“Evidently,” Carmilla drawled.

“Cut Dimitri some slack,” Claude butted in, laughing just a little. “He had a late night.”

Dimitri’s face inflamed, and he briefly thought of the implications of Claude actually starting such a rumor. 

Ingrid would–

 _Sylvain_ would–

_Felix would–_

“Claude,” he snapped, but the damage was done. 

Hilda cooed, and she said, “Awww, were the love birds out last night?”

“Excuse me?” Dimitri squeaked as instantly Claude erupted into uproarious laughter. He couldn’t… There wouldn’t be… _Who?_ “I’m– No, it wasn’t anything like that! I’m not involved with any–”

“Your Highness!” Carmilla interjected, a desperate look on her face, “Excuse you! Let us not be rude. Honestly, what is wrong with the pair of you this morning?”

“Yeah, Dimitri,” Claude said, throwing fuel on the fire, “Don’t insult your love bird.”

 _Oh no_ , Dimitri thought again, as the situation rapidly fell to pieces in his hands. He looked to Edelgard to help, but she just looked vaguely disgusted with the whole exchange. It seemed no assistance would be coming.

“I– I just meant that I was not involved with anyone last night.”

“Uh huh,” Claude snickered, while Hilda laughed louder.

“Well, that’s good to hear, isn’t it, Lady Edelgard?”

Edelgard turned to regard Hilda with a tilt of her and a raised eyebrow. She said, “It is not my concern what Dimitri does in his free time.”

“Really?” Hilda wondered, her eyes wide and her hand on her cheek. “I think I’d always want to know what my fiancé was up to. But if you and Prince Dimitri are different, I guess that’s your business.”

Silence reigned for five heartbeats. Dimitri knew this because he counted. Counting was easier than processing what Hilda had just said. But then the reality crashed down upon him, and Dimitri let out a strangled, miserable noise. He turned to look at El– at his _stepsister_ – just in time to see her face go ashen.

Then Edelgard hissed, _“What?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are not shipping Edelgard and Dimitri in this fic. There's not going to be any ships, not really, I swear (though at times it might not seem that way). The other dimension just has different circumstances, and this is leading to shenanigans; fake dating shenanigans, that do not in fact end in romance. Also, I lied, this won't be reasonably lengthed. But now I have a little more space for the characters to breathe, and more room for shenanigans, which we could always use more of. And trauma conversations, can't forget that. On that note...
> 
> Me: Dimitri's not going to be a mess this chapter, he's had time to process and he can assess the situation logically now without having a panic attack every five minutes.  
> Dimitri: (incoherent sobbing)  
> Me: *sigh* Okay. 
> 
> He's just a sad boy. I find his POV harder to write than Edelgard and Claude's because there's SO MUCH going on beneath the surface with him. He hides it so much better than Edelgard and Claude (self described liars and sneaky sneaks), too, it makes him interesting and hard to sink my teeth into. But hopefully it worked out, what do y'all think? Also, the dlc has screwed my lore, pray for me!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Any comments or kudos you want to leave would be much appreciated.


	3. Edelgard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edelgard acquaints herself with El and El's family, and this somehow became an epistolary fic for a chapter.

Edelgard had attended Seteth’s seminars before. He’d never struck her as a particularly engaging teacher, but an attentive and thorough one, at least. She came away from his lessons having learned something, never feeling them to be a waste of time. Today, seated at the front of a class strangers bearing her comrades’ faces, she didn’t pay him a lick of attention.

Instead of listening to explanations of formations and their best uses, Edelgard was scratching away at her notes erratically. She wasn’t writing down words, merely doodling in an attempt to give herself an outlet as her mind sparked and fired. Dimitri’s name also adorned her paper, up in the corner. Next to it was a colon, followed by her own name.

_Dimitri: Edelgard_

Why, she had to ask.

Why had she– or, rather, not Edelgard, but the girl whose body she was currently inhabiting. Why had the fourth princess, little El, been betrothed to the heir of Faerghus? What was gained from that? What had been lost that made that necessary? Since when did Adrestia scrap to Faerghus, give them one of their royal children, legitimize the Kingdom’s very existence?

Edelgard knew her father. He was a man without vanity, without pride– in many ways, that had been his downfall. But even he would never, _never_ have sold her like chattel to the north.

So, who? And why.

Edelgard needed to get her hands on the Adrestian Tome of Records again, among other documents. 

Whether or not the other Edelgard– who ever that little girl was, whoever El should have been, could have been– was betrothed to Dimitri didn’t really matter. But understanding the current political climate of the Empire was essential to not drawing anymore undue attention. Carmilla already looked like she had swallowed a lemon; she was suspicious. Naturally, as the girl wasn’t nearly as stupid as reported, and Edelgard’s outburst at Hilda had only been one of several slips thus far. 

Edelgard couldn’t afford any more of them.

The curves of the flowers she was drawing were ragged, because her hands were shaking. 

To have already made so many mistakes, opened up so many vulnerabilities… Edelgard clenched her fist and punched a hole into her paper with the quill point. There would be no more vulnerabilities. And that meant figuring out who El was and how to play her. Edelgard had never been a great actor, never good at performing assigned roles. But she did have a lot of experience with trying.

She could lie with the best of them.

When the bells rang for lunch, she’d swept her papers up and capped the inkwell in seconds. She was out of her seat before most of her classmates had closed their books, and she would have been home free had Seteth not called, “Edelgard! Might you stay behind so I can speak with you for a moment?”

Edelgard turned around to regard her counterpart’s professor cooly.

“Of course,” she said, as the Black Eagles filtered out around her. Edelgard noticed Carmilla lingering, and offered her a small smile. 

“Please go along to lunch, Carmilla. I will send for you when I need you.”

It was a perfunctory and cold dismissal, and it worked as well on the sister as it always had on the brother. Though Carmilla looked a little hurt, she did not seem as surprised to be sent away now as she had that morning. She slinked out the door with only the barest glance back, dragging a groggy Linhardt with her. 

That settled, Edelgard gave her attention to Seteth. 

As the churchman-turned-professor walked towards her, Edelgard shifted her weight. It was a vain attempt to stop herself from tensing. From Seteth’s soft frown, Edelgard would guess she had failed in keeping the dread totally out of her body language.

“Are you well?” he asked damnably, predictably. “You’ve been unusually quiet today.”

“I’m fine, Professor. Truly, there’s no need for concern,” she said, trying to keep her teeth from gritting, trying to keep her tone light. 

_Why Seteth,_ she had to wonder. Out of all the potential professors, why was Seteth teaching the Black Eagles? It was enough to make Edelgard want to curse her luck, that she couldn’t have been dealing with Manuela or Hanneman. Both were sympathetic to her aims, both were familiar and non-threatening. Both were easily fooled. 

Not Seteth, though, who grimaced at her words before raising one skeptical eyebrow.

“Edelgard, if you aren’t feeling well, please tell me, so I might help. Being sick is no mark of shame. We all grow ill sometimes.”

 _Do you?_ Edelgard thought.

She had her suspicions about Seteth, who was especially close to Rhea, and who Solon claimed did not age, and who possessed a rare Major Crest. Did he grow sick? Could he possibly understand what it felt like to have your body turn against you and fight, fight, fight for life against the smallest incursions to the point of detriment?

No, Edelgard did not believe the Nabateans understood such things. If they did, the Church would value physicians as highly as they did holy healers. If they understood how scary illness was– and the shame that cropped up with that fear– disease would not run so rampantly throughout Fodlan. 

A rush of white hot indignation flushed through her body, but Edelgard kept her expression stony. 

Then she looked away with a small sigh of defeat.

“I understand, Professor Seteth. Truly, I’m not sick, but I suppose I am unwell. I didn’t sleep well last night. But I’m more than fine,” she said, and her voice came out smooth and quietly pleasant. She didn’t smile, but Edelgard made sure her lips were quirked enough that it wasn’t a frown either.

Deception was about give-and-take.

Though Seteth’s brow knitted in concern, he at least let out a relieved sigh at her admission. Further denial would have riled him; there was nothing people hated more than being faced with perfection when their instincts were bucking. But by giving him a small problem to grasp onto, the matter of her sleeping habits…

“You ought not strain yourself. I know your duties as House Leader are extensive, but not everything has to be done at once, or alone. I am always here should you require assistance.”

“Of course, Professor Seteth,” Edelgard said, trying to make herself sound at least slightly fond. It was easier to manage as her heart warmed with victory. 

Edelgard swiftly promised to speak to either Seteth or Professor Manuela if her sleeping problems persisted, then quietly excused herself. _Food, and then a nap_ , she swore, that would help heal her; perhaps she could take the afternoon off? Seteth seemed pleased with this plan, and excused her from lessons for the rest of the day. Then, Edelgard was allowed to leave with no more fuss. 

She stifled a sigh through clenched teeth and pinched lips as she walked out into the sun. Edelgard strolled calmly through the paths of Garreg Mach, fiddling ever so slightly with the hem of her shorts. Normally– or not ‘normally’, as she’d broken the habit _years_ ago– Edelgard’s hands would be straying towards her dagger, the blue one that she’d held onto as they strapped her wrists to a table. 

In this dimension, though, she did not have that dagger. 

It left Edelgard feeling oddly bereft, though she had not toyed with the blade since it– since her brother was finally released from his misery. The dagger was a reminder, a promise, not a toy or a comfort item. Not anymore.

For this El, it never had been. 

Now Edelgard couldn’t help but wonder where she picked up that damn dagger. She couldn't help but wonder if El had something similar, some small token that she fiddled with and carried on her person. A favorite weapon, or piece of jewelry. But Edelgard knew nothing about El; she certainly didn’t know what the girl’s relationships with _Professor Seteth_ or her _betrothed_ or her empire were like. And with each reminder, Edelgard realized just how much control had been wrenched from her. 

Which meant she must yoke it back into her hands.

Claude and Dimitri were standing outside the door to the abandoned classroom that Claude had designated as their ‘neutral ground’ of sorts. They both turned to grab her attention as she approached, but she ignored them. Edelgard strode right past Dimitri’s flushed face and flustered stutterings. He’d made a fool of himself in front of Hilda and Carmilla, which Edelgard might be inclined to point out to him if she hadn’t also been foolish. 

Claude’s considering eyes were harder to shake off, and she felt them on her back all the way towards the dorms. She despised being in his debt. He’d been able to reframe her furious display at that new piece of information into indignation at Hilda’s ‘relationship meddling’. So now Edelgard only seemed harsh and haughty, rather than critically ignorant. She’d feel better about it if only Carmilla had given any indication that El was, in fact, harsh and haughty, or if Claude hadn’t been the one to tailor the deception.

Edelgard fingers clenched on the hem of her pants, her nails digging into her hand through the fabric. Each step towards El’s room felt like wading through mud. The back of her neck itched as if Dimitri and Claude’s stares were boring into her back, accusing her.

 _One challenge at a time_ , she reminded herself. It was what she said while regaining the proper use of her limbs, the proper use of her mind and instincts and _crests_ ; proper use of her entire life. One challenge at a time. Edelgard had waited years to be released from a variety of prison cells, both the literal and metaphorical and the ones that blurred that line. Her ignorance was just one of more cage to release herself from.

Edelgard took in a deep breath as she entered El’s bedroom door, pausing to gather herself. Then she went to the desk. There was a jewelry box on top, and a peak inside proved that it was for containing letters. Edelgard threw it on the bed. 

Then she picked up and through the homework, because Edelgard could feel the weakness in her limbs. For years, it had been hard to feel much of anything in her upper body– crisscrossed with scars and irreversibly burned through with Dark magic– but El’s skin was softer and her muscles were concentrated in different places. Most notably, Edelgard’s legs had never been this toned. Perusal of the techniques the girl had been studying before all this happened confirmed what Edelgard had suspected.

She was still a Brigand by trade. But rather than supplementary study in Heavy Armour, the extra books and papers were now focused on _Flying_ of all things, with Reason on the side, inexplicably. Remembering the various classes, Edelgard supposed that the Flying, at least, made some manner of sense. But she’d never had any interest in beasts of burden, let alone ones that took her so high and away from the action–

 _Write Brynhilde!_ was in big letters next to a question about the effect of wind on flyers.

The puzzle pieces fell into place.

Edelgard’s eyes fluttered shut, and she carefully set El’s homework down. Taking a deep breath, she couldn’t help how her gaze fell towards the box of letters. Had El already penned the question to Brynhilde? Had her older sister written back? 

_Bryn, Visna, and Marta,_ Edelgard thought. Flying, axes, and magic. Three older sisters to emulate, three paths to pick and choose from. No wonder El’s study was so eclectic. A small stab of pity hit Edelgard as she thought of Liesl– Little Liesl, her only younger sister. Liesl would have an even harder time trying to forge an identity. 

Biting her lip, Edelgard turned back to the desk. 

There were a few more odds and ends; a jar of ribbons in a variety of colors, various inks and quills, an oddly well-sketched depiction of her sprawling family, all thirteen of them. Edelgard couldn’t look at the portrait for more than the time it took to identify it. 

Then she went to the wardrobe, where Edelgard found battle clothes, several uniforms, some formal wear, and the dress El had obviously arrived at Garreg Mach in. It was short sleeved, as was typical in Adrestia during the summer time. There were also a variety of boots, and a box on the top shelf. A small tiara rested inside, which was not nearly as nice as the heir’s crown back in Adrestia that she’d worn for five years now. This was a fourth princess’s, ninth child’s signet. Edelgard could not begin to guess why El had brought it to Garreg Mach. Such displays of royalty were strictly forbidden by the dress code.

She went through the weapons stored under the bed, axes and swords, and not a white and red mask to be found. There was a much larger box of letters next to the weapon crate, which Edelgard made confused, annoyed noise at. _No one should have so much correspondence,_ she thought, picking through the miscellaneous letters. But having ten siblings… friends with names that Edelgard didn’t recognize… parents, uncles, in-laws, and courtiers. They were all writing El, just for the sake of having written.

Most of these letters, Edelgard realized, were just wastes of paper. 

After sifting through El’s trash and finding that the girl didn’t throw any parchment out, it became obvious that the box of letters on the desk were keepsakes, rather than typical correspondence. With a nasty huff, Edelgard kicked the crate of letters back under the bed, disgusted that El hadn’t burned them. She briefly considered getting rid of the waste of space herself, before Edelgard reigned her frustration in. 

Then– out of crannies to investigate– Edelgard was forced to admit that she would have to go through the _important_ letters to understand certain things.

Her engagement would no doubt come up. As would the state of the Empire, the state of her relationships within her family and Enbarr, El’s feelings about her classmates, teachers, schedules, recent missions, etc. 

The inevitability of the task in mind, Edelgard threw herself on the bed, fighting the urge to throw a fit. 

“I hate you,” she whispered to the keepsake box, not quite sure who she was really talking to. Then she opened it.

One by one, Edelgard sifted through the letters, setting them into piles by author.

The triplets were piled together. They had written one long, largely inane letter together that took far too long to wish her well at school. With Wilhelm, Friedrich, and Lycaon, she also placed an envelope addressed to Edelgard in soft, feminine hand-writing that proved to be from a woman by the name of Odelle von Hresvelg. After reading this letter, Edelgard still knew little about Odelle beside the facts that she was from Faerghus, married to Friedrich, overly polite, and could not quite contain her excitement that her sister-in-law was marrying ‘His Highness’.

Edelgard reasoned that Odelle likely hoped to use El’s position as an excuse to visit her relatives in Faerghus, perhaps even a reason to move Friedrich to Fhirdiad. Frankly, Edelgard hated that Friedrich had a wife– _‘Odelle says she is also sending a letter!’_ – because the last memory she had of him was from when he was sixteen and she was nine, and he’d made an inappropriate joke that Visna slapped him for. 

_He’s twenty-five_ , she was forced to realize. A very different man from the boy she’d known. 

Edelgard took a few moments to herself to ensure that she had fully digested the knowledge that her siblings were grown. Then she read the one letter that El had deemed important from Rolf, who was a miserable, hysterical boy of six in her memories. This version of her brother wrote like any other twelve-year-old– using words he only half understood, quick to the point, self-absorbed in relating his own life and uninterested in asking after his sister’s– and Edelgard could not guess what was sentimental about this letter out of the dozens of others Rolf had likely sent. There didn’t seem to be any valuable information in Rolf’s antics with their young _niece_ besides the news that said niece existed.

Edelgard wouldn’t doubt that El had several nieces and nephews honestly. 

Two letters were kept from Visna in the box, both of which were concerned with axe techniques. Her signature, though, read, _Lieutenant Visna von Bergliez of House Hresvelg, Princess of Adrestia_. Edelgard didn’t know what to make of that. Was Caspar her brother-in-law? Whatever the specifics, it was obvious that they were of some legal relation. Edelgard would have to keep that in mind.

Mother and Father had a pile to themselves. Edelgard did not want to read any of the letters from _Anselma von Arundel_ , and thus decided that she would not. 

Father’s words were soft and affectionate, and complacency poured from his every letter. There was no talk of the Empire or any official duties. Mostly it was just anecdotes about Rolf and Liesl, accounts of his board games with Marquis Vestra, Io, and Mother, and how his gardens were doing. He sounded just like he did in her childhood memories– the ones that were irrevocably tainted and fuzzy– chipper and kindly and ponderous. Only one element was different: Father wrote like he was bored. As a girl, she’d have been lucky to get an hour or two of his attention a week, which was still shared with her siblings. Now, Father had the time for gardening, games, and long-winded correspondence?

Edelgard didn’t need to read two letters before she understood that Ionius IX was not the true ruler of the Empire, whether or not there was an Insurrection.

This news was not unexpected but still… slightly distressing. As her heart beat a little too fast, Edelgard licked her lips. She was t quite sure what to do next, who to read next. If her father did not rule, who?

Edelgard looked down at the letters, trying to determine the most helpful, and hesitated. There were only a few siblings left.

She would not say she’d had _favorite_ brothers and sisters… but Liesl, Beron, and Marta had been nearer to her in age. They wrote more prolifically. They had more letters in El’s keepsake box. 

At length, she decided to leave Liesl and Beron be for a little while. Neither had been particularly astute, surely they wouldn’t say anything too illuminating in letter form. Edelgard could also, perhaps, admit that the idea of reading the words of a Liesl who still had her mind was… distressing. Beron was a whole different kind of hurt. 

Edelgard carefully shuffled Beron and Liesl’s letters together, resolved to leave them for another day. But from an envelope of Beron’s that she’d accidentally held upside down, a wad of parchment with too familiar hand-writing slipped out. Seeing those oddly, distinctly written q’s, Edelgard snatched the paper up in an instant, and whispered, “Hubert.”

He’d sent his letters alongside Beron’s. 

Edelgard quickly checked all the envelopes addressed from Beron, and quickly discovered the reason that El had kept more of his than anyone else’s. Three out of the seven letters from Beron were actually letters from Hubert that had been stamped with the Hresvelg seal and addressed in Beron’s hand. It was such an unbearably stupid security measure that Edelgard laughed.

 _Naturally_ , she thought, laughing until tears stung her eyes, _Hubert’s with Beron._

Goddess, Edelgard could barely remember those days when she shared Hubert with other people. With his parents, Carmilla, the even younger sister and brother that she hardly knew. Shared him with a pet dog, and his lessons, and the Vestra Manor that he’d gone home to after playtime. She’d shared him with Marta and Beron and Ionius, and Edelgard had hated it when she was young. She and Beron had always been bickering over which one of them was Hubert’s best friend, the boy his age or the little girl he swore to protect with stuttering words. It seemed that in this dimension, Beron had won. 

And El got Carmilla as a consolation prize. 

She had to laugh at that, even though it hurt a little.

With steady fingers and a smile on her face, Edelgard read one of Hubert’s letters. He was familiar; and safe. As always, Hubert was all business. He spoke about court, and parliament, and ‘Lord Ionius’s legislative skill’. There was a debate about the maintenance of roads across the Empire, especially as it related to the dilapidated House Hrym’s inability to afford the stone work for the next year. 

_Lord Hyrm has, naturally, backed Lord Ionius’s proposal to make the roads a duty of the Ministry of Domestic Affairs, as had Lord Hevring. Lady Varley objects, claiming that Hevring is power hungry, and Hrym is naught but a puppet of the crown. Of course, she is not wrong, but Marta has been called to court to resolve the turmoil._

‘Marta’, Edelgard noticed. Io was ‘Lord Ionius’, but Marta was still Marta to him. Edelgard supposed that followed the pattern. He’d addressed the letters ‘Dear El’, after all.

The sudden reminder of the… loss of that closeness in her own life made her heart ache, but fury rather than sorrow followed. It was a crucial reminder that the Insurrection’s dedication to tradition– that the constraints of the nobility– hadn’t just ruined lives through death or short-form torture. There were slower evils at play. 

Though Edelgard finished reading Hubert’s letter– which ended with an unsubtle promise to _remove_ Prince Dimitri should she just ask him too– she didn’t read the others from him. She didn’t want to know more about what El’s Hubert was like, not if it wasn’t essential. This dimension’s Beron could have this version of Hubert. Edelgard had more than enough to handle with Carmilla for now.

She had a letter in El’s box. Edelgard had tossed it aside initially, confused as to why a girl who slept next door would have sent El a letter, let alone one she felt necessary to seal with the Vestra emblem. But Hubert’s caution had piqued Edelgard’s interest, so she decided to investigate. Inside, there was a single piece of parchment that bore the marks of having been crumbled and haphazardly folded several times. Edelgard carefully opened it, and her eyes widened when she saw the blocky handwriting. A quick glance at the back of the addressed envelope confirmed that it was different from the swoops and sharp stops that Carmilla favored.

“Dear Edelgard,” it read, and that also struck Edelgard as uncharacteristic for either a Vestra or a friend. Surely Carmilla would say ‘Lady Edelgard’ or ‘El’. No, Edelgard didn’t think Carmilla had sent this letter. She peeked at the bottom where the signature should be, but there were only ragged edges. 

The farewell and signature had been torn off. The last paragraph of the letter ended, “But I had to tell you,” and the rest of the page was gone.

Edelgard hummed in thought, intrigued. Perhaps El had shoved this letter into an old envelope from Carmilla. It was a clever hiding place for something… illicit. And as Edelgard scanned the messy little letter, she realized it was quite illicit, indeed. 

_Dear Edelgard,_

_This may come as a shock, but I’m not all that good with words. Not when it matters, at least. I’ve struggled with if I even want to share this with you, or anyone. There’s something rather romantic in pining for the rest of my days for the sake of peace, honestly. And you know how I like a little romance._

_But I’ve decided that’s not fair, either to you or to me._

_I’m in love with you, Edelgard._

_More than I should be, more than we have ever been allowed. I don’t know what I want to do with this information, nor what I want you to do with it. But I realized that either of us could die on our missions tomorrow, or during any other missions thereafter. Though we’ve risked our lives several times now, I’ve suddenly been seized with a fear I can’t shake. I’ve been struck with a terrible certainty: I don’t want to lose you. Not to death, nor at the end of the year to duty._

_I know this isn’t fair. Not to lay my feelings on you, or the position I’ve put you in, or the position this places Dimitri in. It’s not fair to any of us. But I’ve been turning the possibilities over in my head, and all I can think is that if we just talk about it with everyone, there has to be some answer. And you’re the first person I need to come clean to._

_Edelgard von Hresvelg, I’m in love with you._

_You don’t have to answer this, you don’t have to reciprocate. You can break our thing off, or we can keep on going as we ever were, never acknowledging my feelings or– I hope– yours. But I had to tell you._

Edelgard whistled.

 _Wow_ , she thought, letting out a huff. _My, oh my, oh my._

Little El was having an affair. She was having an affair with one of her classmates, and the paramour was in too deep. El had stolen the signature off the page, and Edelgard would bet it said, ‘With my love,’ or ‘all my love,’ or something like, ‘your most affectionate lover,’. Did El throw it out or hide it? Edelgard was tempted to go looking. 

She didn’t, only because no matter how tickled she was at this revelation– and she was highly amused– Edelgard couldn’t quite shake off the scorn. El was engaged to the crown prince of a foreign nation, and she was having an affair that had gotten too serious. Wars were started over less. What a stupid little girl. No wonder Carmilla was so up in arms about being rude to Dimitri; this must be the affair she had been referring to that morning, not the Flame Emperor. Edelgrad felt a flash of pity for Carmilla, for the position this put her in.

El might actually start as war, just like Edelgard would someday soon. But, by the Goddess, this was a trivial thing to die for.

Did anyone else know?

If anyone did– besides Carmilla– it would be Hubert, Beron, Liesl, or Marta. And out of those four… Yes, only Marta could keep a secret. Perhaps Marta would have some insight on El’s rebellion, and her betrothal. There were two letters from her in the keepsake box. Edelgard picked up the older one first.

 _To dearest El,_ Marta wrote, and though Edelgard knew the words were not addressed to her, her throat tightened.

_My return to court has been welcome and welcoming, not the least by Beron and Father. I’m to have tea with Lady Varly in three days time. I look forward to it, as the countess is known to be quite reasonable. You know how tiresome I find unreasonable people, El. You are included in this._

_Harsh,_ Edelgard thought as she snorted, eyes stinging again, _and reserved._

_I read the novel you sent me. I must say, I am appalled at the content. Please send the author’s other work. Include your thoughts on Polly’s final choice to remain with the pirate. I was pleased with it, but I’ll admit it took some thinking to come around to that artistic choice, and I cannot guess at your reaction._

Lukewarm and imperious. 

_I do believe I’d be forgiven if I asked the Church to assist with some local issues. Is there any way I might specifically request the Black Eagles? I have missed our chats, and my bed is often cold without a sister to share it with._

Loving.

Marta was so much clearer in Edelgard’s memories than the others. She’d been more present in Edelgard’s day-to-day life. And Marta was one of the last to die. She had weathered the pain in a way that… Edelgard could only try to emulate her grace. And did try, most days. Marta’s fury had been so cold, though, and Edelgard wasn’t sure she compuncted herself quite that delicately.

It was nearly an insult to once more see all the dignity showcased in its true form. 

There was no mention of any affair, or misdeeds on El’s part, besides a reminder to not pick fights with Ingrid Galatea, as ‘she is merely trying to be friendly’. Half-way through the scolding, Edelgard tossed the parchment aside for the other one, looking for something more relevant. 

Marta did not disappoint, and this letter had heavy set letters, as if it was written in a fury. The beginning did not beat around the bush either.

_Your dissatisfaction with the match has been ever present and pointless since the age of ten, but has obviously compounded since arrival at Garreg Mach. I’ll not give you the credit of thinking it is because you are an adequate judge of character, El, especially as Prince Dimitri has been a fixture of our circle for nigh a decade. I doubt there is any defect in his character that the Officer’s Academy has shown you that summers in Fhirdiad didn’t. I don’t know what has gotten into your head to create this new strain of nastiness, but I’ll not suffer it._

_Be grateful you’ve not found yourself with a husband of ill temper._

Edelgard drew in a short, sharp breath, previous designs forgotten. 

Then she quickly skipped to the last page, where she found Marta’s signature.

_Lady Marta von Hrym._

Which Hrym? Edelgard was seized with the need to know _which Hrym?_

She quickly tore back threw Marta’s letters, looking for her husband’s name, but only finding ‘Lord Hrym’. Undeterred and _burning_ , Edelgard grabbed one of Beron’s letters. He would know, Beron would know and he would _hate_. He had too, Beron and Marta were so close, Beron was so protective, so chivalrous, so good, such a good big brother, he had always–

_Everyone’s buzzing because Varley said that Marta has Emile on a leash!_

Emile.

It took Edelgard a moment to remember where she knew that name, but then it hit her in the gut.

Emile, Emile, a little boy with pale hair, pale eyes, pale skin, trapped in a dark cell, in the dark ground, with dark marks on his skin from the experiments. “Emile,” he’d whispered when Edelgard asked his name, and they’d held hands through the bars while listening to Liesl shriek, knowing that one of them would be next. _Emile_ , Edelgard had thought, when told that Subject 3B had been relocated. Emile was who Edelgard asked Hubert to find, but Emile was long dead by then, just like El. Dead alongside the Bartels he had slaughtered. 

They’d named him Jeritza in the meantime. They gave him Hrym.

The Death Knight. 

Marta was married to the Death Knight.

A jolt of panic shuddered down Edelgard’s spine, and she was leaping to her feet, scrambling out of blankets and paper. She stumbled onto the ground, and her hands were reaching and clenching for some sort of weapon. But there was nothing for her to grasp in ready distance, Edelgard was left turning in circles and listening to her heart beat too fast. And in the few seconds it took her to remember where her axe was… reality came back to her.

Drawing in deep breaths, Edelgard told herself to _calm down._

She told herself, _Your sister is dead._

Marta was dead.

This… was some other girl. Married to some man named Emile von Hrym, and if El didn’t have scars all down her body, then maybe he…

People were plenty vile without the excuses Jeritza boasted, Edelgard knew that. But this also wasn’t her situation to get involved in. El obviously hadn’t intervened. Or perhaps, this Marta’s words were benign and Edelgard… maybe Edelgard was just too reactionary, too burning to see and hear everything clearly. Hubert was always scolding her for getting too involved in others’ lives. Marta was fine. And if this Marta wasn’t fine, it didn’t matter because Marta was dead.

Her body was interned in a miserable stone crypt, decaying. 

Marta didn’t feel anything anymore, had no troubles. This stranger’s life wasn’t Edelgard’s problem. Going home. Going home was Edelgard’s only concern, only issue to address. Blending in and going home, and then _burning, destroying_ what had caused all this in the first place.

 _That is all that matters_ , Edelgard told herself.

For some reason, her knees gave out beneath her. The anger was fizzling out, leaving behind a cold and wet feeling in its wake. Edelgard hated that sensation, the sensation of stasis and emptiness. No anger, but no sorrow. She had none to give to herself, or to a woman she could not help while stuck in this current predicament. All she had to give was a certain thrumming numbness that came with being unable to solve the real problem. 

It was a familiar sensation. 

Edelgard’s hands clenched on the carpet. Then, with a harsh, ragged breath, she stood. She patted down her tights, before turning back towards the bed. Inaction did not suit her, could not be withstood. Her body was still shaking with wasted adrenaline, Edelgard had to do something else, least she actually made herself ill.

Balefully, she stared at the mess of parchment and wax on the sheets, and decided to catalog what she had learned of importance. El hated her engagement. That made Edelgard’s life easier, though the affair didn’t. She didn’t fancy the idea of a mysterious lover expecting something from her. That would have to be addressed.

Many of El’s siblings were married, some with children. She would have to create a chart of some kind to compile all those names. Marta was married to… to a _Bartels_ , adopted Hrym or not. Why that house? What made that alliance so important?

What made the Kingdom’s friendship important?

Edelgard hummed to herself, considering the letters before her. She had been saving Io and Bryn’s letters for last, as they would likely have the most information. If Father wasn’t ruling the Empire, and the Insurrection had never occurred, surely that meant… 

Well, that meant that Edelgard’s hollow wishes– whispered to the stars above Fhirdiad, where she had thought the Goddess lived– that her eldest brother and sister would save them all had come true. 

How… annoying.

Heaving a sigh, Edelgard grabbed the letters from everyone but Ionius and Byrnhilde. She shoved them back in the keepsake box, and placed said box down on the desk again.

The room was now marginally cleaner, and Edelgard’s heartbeat was back in rythym. Pleased, she prepared to settle back into reading. 

Then a knock came from the door. 

Biting the inside of her cheek, Edelgard swallowed a curse. She hesitated for a moment, then squared her shoulders and marched over. When she wrenched the door open, Carmilla von Vestra was standing there, a satchel at her side. 

_Damn the entire line_ , Edelgard thought. Carmilla just tilted her nose up and sniffed down at her princess. She held up the bag. 

“Professor Seteth says that you are not feeling well. If you won’t see Professor Manuela, I must insist on looking you over myself. If you don’t comply, I will write Hubert and Beron.”

“What,” Edelgard asked, dropping a hand to her hip and annoyance dripping from her entire countenance, “not Marta?”

Despite her displeasure, she let Carmilla in anyway.

“Even I wouldn’t visit that upon you,” Carmilla said as she closed the door behind her. There was a soft _click_ , and then she twirled around sharply to narrow her eyes at Edelgard.

Bluntly, Carmilla snapped, “Are you pregnant?”

“What! No!” Edelgard all but shrieked automatically, then placed her hand on her stomach and looked down. 

_Oh, Seiros._

_Was_ she pregnant?

“I don’t think so,” Edelgard hissed, looking up desperately at Carmilla. 

The girl just closed her eyes in pain in response, and pointed at the bed. Edelgard sat. Then Carmilla grabbed the desk chair and placed it in front of Edelgrad, before sitting down herself. With a _snap_ , she opened the satchel at her feet, and pulled out a variety of instruments that Edelgard recognized but couldn’t name. She was too busy fighting the shudder down her spine at the sight of the cold, gleaming steel. 

Carmilla set her instruments aside, though, and instead placed her hand at Edelgard’s stomach. Edelgard tensed at the nearness, and the creeping heat of the Faith that started to illuminate Carmilla’s hand. She didn’t wear gloves, Edelgard noticed while trying to ignore the crawling magic worming through her system. 

Lady Vestra had always worn gloves when they were children and after, and gloves were very fashionable for nobles. They didn’t impede magic, typically, some types of gloves even helped alleviate magic burns. But as Carmilla took Edelgard’s own gloved arm into her soft grasp, Edelgard supposed that gloves would make taking a pulse more difficult. Carmilla had to pull Edelgard’s cotton gloves off to do her task.

Carmilla’s clammy fingers felt along Edelgard’s neck and forehead, pressing awkwardly. 

Gloves were proper for nobles and helpful even for mages, but perhaps cotton and silk were a nuisance for physicians. 

“Do you resent your crest?” Edelgard asked suddenly, causing Carmilla to look away from her examination with a raised eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“Saint Cethleann. Your crest. It’s best application is for recovery magic. You loved studying attack magic, though. When we were young, you wanted to specialize in Reason like your father. But…” Edelgard paused for a breath, before vocalizing her assumption. “Now you focus on Faith. You’re studying to be a physician.”

Carmilla pressed her lips together and looked away. Edelgard let out a small huff that was almost a laugh of victory. 

“Don’t you resent that, Carmilla? Being pigeon-holed into a certain field because of some arbitrary accident of birth?”

Carmilla banged one of her instruments on Edelgard’s forehead, and pursed her lips as she considered that question. Eventually she just shook her head.

“You say it like my crest is the same thing as my eye color. But if that’s the case, then studying Faith is like wearing greens and blues. Those colors look better on me, recovery magic is what I’m good at. That’s just a fact of life at this point.”

Carmilla shrugged, and looked up at Edelgard hopelessly. She smiled a little bit, and Edelgard honestly couldn’t tell whether Carmilla was being sincere in her blaisé or not. Did she honestly not care, or had Carmilla been told not to care so long the difference no longer mattered.

But either way, commiseration washed through Edelgard at the sight, and she was struck with empathy for this replica of a girl she no longer knew. 

“But why must it be that way?” Edelgard implored, leaning forward. “Why must we stick to such a rigid set of standards based upon someone else’s ideas of good?”

Edelgard seized Carmilla’s hands in her own ungloved grasp. 

“You can wear orange if you want to, Carmilla.”

Carmilla looked down at their hands then up at Edelgard’s eyes. Then she laughed. Carmilla threw her shoulders and head back, and grabbed tightly around Edelgard’s fingers.

“There’s El! To Aillel with good taste, wear orange!” Carmilla giggled some more, then cupped Edelgard’s cheeks. “If this is your way of telling me you’re going to start wearing mauve, even I will have to abandon you.”

Edelgard smiled despite herself, even as her point was completely missed. Or maybe ignored.

In response, Edelgard just dryly said, “I’m going to wear mauve, and it will offend good taste, and then Dimitri will no longer be able to stand the thought of marrying me.”

Carmilla snorted and pulled back. 

“So that was your evil plan all along?” she said, waving one of her metal tools in Edelgard’s face before putting it back in her bag. “You’re not pregnant, by the way. Which is good, because I would really, really hate to have to stage your death.”

Edelgard’s smile fell away, but she brought her hand up to her chin in consideration. It would be another leap in judgement, but from what Edelgard remembered of Carmilla in their youth…

“I think you’d enjoy the opportunity to be so dramatic,” Edelgard mused.

Carmilla snorted again as she finished arranging her bag and sat back up. 

“Maybe, maybe. But Hubert would figure me out in days, and then you’d be arranging my very real funeral.”

“So you’re scared of Hubert now?”

Carmilla’s mouth fell open, then she closed it. She scowled. 

“I hate that you can manipulate me so easily,” she muttered, acquiescence in her voice. She would never even insinuate bending to Hubert’s will, let alone fearing him.

“It comes with familiarity,” Edelgard replied easily.

In response to that simple statement, though, Carmilla’s eyes softened and her shoulders sagged. She looked so relieved that a stab of shame and sorrow hit Edelgard. Naturally, Carmilla would be missing her friend, the girl who was likely her best friend. The change from El to Edelgard must have been quite upsetting for her, might still be upsetting. It was a shame Edelgard could not help but cause her pain, and that she must cause it for sometime yet.

Briefly, Edelgard considered what would happen should she confess her predicament to Carmilla, to El’s family and classmates and professors. To the Church. The potential outcomes were so universally awful, Edelgard almost wanted to laugh. 

She turned away from Carmilla instead of speaking nonsense, and licked her lips as she considered her next move. 

“Carmilla,” Edelgard said at length, “I’m sorry I’ve been acting odd all day.”

Carmilla gave a long and deep sigh in response. Edelgard looked back towards her to see Carmilla sitting back in the chair with her arms crossed and brows furrowed in concern.

“You’re not sick, El, but you’re not sleeping, allegedly. What’s wrong? You know… Come on, I can’t promise not whine or mock you but– I wouldn’t actually ever snitch on you to Hubert or– or Lord Ionius. You know that.”

Edelgard’s jaw clenched at Io’s mention, a rush of understanding and satisfaction running through her. He was El’s authority figure then.

“I know that, Carmilla,” Edelgard said soothingly in reply. “It is just that what I have been considering today… I’ve been trying to understand my thoughts and feelings myself.”

Carmilla frowned sharply and leaned forward.

“El…” she drew out, caution in her voice.

“I think that my feelings have become too serious.”

“You’re feelings for–” Carmilla started, and then her body drew up and an incandescent fury fell upon her features. 

“I’m going to kill him!” Carmilla shrieked, as she rocketed from the chair. For a moment Edelgard feared that Carmilla really would go for the door and the kill. Instead, she merely began to pace. 

“I told you,” Carmilla hissed, “I told you not to fall for him. ‘Oh, it’s just fun, Milly. We’re just fooling around, Milly. There’s nothing to get worked up about, Milly.’ And yet!”

“That is a poor impression of me,” Edelgard groused, mildly offended. As Carmilla continued to rant, though, Edelgard did note that El’s lover was a man. That was good to know, at least. Even if Carmilla damnably refused to name him, as if El’s lover’s name was a dirty curse.

“I mean, where does this go? War? Marriage? Do you run away? Where do you go? Petra will only shelter you for so long! I can only hide this for so long, and even if Prince Dimitri doesn’t care, his father will!” 

Carmilla whirled around to snarl at Edelgard, who pulled back a little.

“Is _this_ what that crest talk was about?” she hissed, causing Edelgard’s eyes to widen a little. And then Edelgard sneered. 

Of course. El had been sold to the Kingdom because she bore a crest. 

“Liesl would fit Dimitri’s temperament better,” Edelgard jeered, causing Carmilla to throw her hands up. 

She walked one more circuit around the room, kicking at the carpet and muttering to herself. Then Carmilla dramatically collapsed on the bed, all but throwing herself down, right on top of the letters. As Carmilla’s body _whooshed_ past, just a hair’s breadth from making contact, Edelgard startled up, and scooted towards the edge of the bed.

“Carmilla!” she snapped.

Carmilla didn’t pay any attention, though, she had her arm tossed across her eyes and her teeth were bared in despair.

“I really am going to have to fake your deaths,” Carmilla moaned. 

Edelgard sighed, ragged dismay and annoyance bleeding from her voice. She suddenly longed for Hubert, who was plenty dramatic, but typically kept his theatrics out of her sight. Carmilla had no such compunctions apparently.

“I never said I was going to run away!” Edelgard nearly whined, “I merely said that I… cared more than initially intended.”

Carmilla peaked out from under her elbow.

“Does that mean you’re going to break it off?” she whispered.

“Most likely,” Edelgard replied, feeling a brief stab of regret for interfering in El’s life in such a way. But a paramour was a problem Edelgard was not prepared to run around. She would meet with this lover, let him down firmly, saying all the good lines from the operas about ‘duty’ and ‘fate’. Then Edelgard could focus on going home, hopefully returning El– wherever her consciousness was– to her own life. Then the girl could fix and continue to run that life as she saw fit.

Carmilla did not react to this news as Edelgard had expected, though. Instead of relief, sadness and resignation radiated from Carmilla’s eyes. 

“Are you sure?” Carmilla asked softly, grabbing Edelgard’s hand and squeezing in an unnecessary attempt at comfort. Edelgard squeezed back and nodded.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” Carmilla whispered.

“No, it is best for me to do it myself. But could you fetch him for me? Ask him to meet me in the far courtyard outside the cathedral.”

“We can do it tomorrow. I can steal some wine and cakes, grab Dorothea and Petra, we can all impose on Bernadetta…”

Edelgard just shook her head.

“I have been gathering courage all day. It would not do to squander that now.”

In a flash, Carmilla sat up. Before Edelgard could blink she was suddenly jerked forward, and her face was squished against a mass of black curls. Carmilla’s arm was wrapped tightly around Edelgard’s shoulders. 

“You don’t actually have to do this,” Carmilla said, and Edelgard’s lips parted in shock.

She sat stiffly for a moment, then slowly relaxed. She let her head fall onto Carmilla’s breast, and breathed deeply for a few moments. She shuddered against her will, a reaction brought on by a rush of fondness that Edelgard could not stop. 

It seemed Carmilla was more like her brother that Hubert had ever admitted.

Edelgard smiled bitterly.

“What else can we do?” she asked.

“I’ve been drawing up emergency plans. There’s a few options, some of which don’t end in war. How open are you to dressing as a milkmaid?”

Edelgard was startled into laughter, and Carmilla followed, though her laughs were wet and choked. 

“No,” Edelgard declared, pulling back and reaching blindly for one of Ionius’s letters. “No. I’ll… I’ve decided I shall not disappoint the Empire, or my family.”

Carmilla blinked at her, gnawing at her lip.

“I understand the sentiment, El, truly. But do _you_ really know what you’re saying?”

Edelgard paused, considering how El might respond to that. 

It had been half a decade since Edelgard had given even a second of consideration to her family and their wishes. Her empire was another matter, but… What would the spoiled child who was dragged to Fhirdiad say? What would that child say after she was violently forced to mature?

“I’ve been considering Marta,” Edelgard finally said, the words coming out hesitant as she tasted and considered each one. This was not… a made-up story, but not one she’d ever told anyone before either. “‘Each person has a responsibility to others, from the lowliest commoners to the loftiest nobles’. She told me that when I was nine. It took me several years to understand that she meant… that she meant that we had a responsibility not just those in our immediate lives, but to all of those in this world. As royals to our people, yes, but also just _as_ people. We all bear that responsibility in equal measure, but I’ve power. I’m going to use it, rather than squander it, no matter which paths would be easier or more pleasant.”

That responsibility kept the flame in Edelgard’s chest lit. 

But from the puzzled look in Carmilla’s eyes, Edelgard knew that she didn’t understand.

Carmilla tilted her head, and she seemed to be fighting for words. At length, though, the girl just nodded. Then Carmilla stood.

She was a very good friend, it seemed, but a better Vestra. That had always been Carmilla’s problem, Edelgard supposed.

“I’ll schedule the meeting for sunset,” Carmilla said, dusting at her long skirt and wiping at her wet eyes. She hadn’t cried, but it looked to Edelgard as if it had been a near thing.

“Thank you,” Edelgard replied, smiling on the impulse of a sudden, strong rush of pride. The gesture just made Carmilla frown harder.

“They don’t deserve you, El,” she declared sharply. Then Carmilla grabbed her satchel, turned on heel, and all but ran from El’s room. 

Edelgard could only stare after her with a raised eyebrow.

 _Poor Carmilla_ , she thought, _Poor El._

She did feel bad for ruining her relationship, one that seemed to mean a lot to the girl and the sad boy in question. But as Edelgard opened the letter in her hands– the one from Io that looked as if it had been crumbled, and thrown, and ripped in places– she reasoned that her own actions might not actually be that far off from little El’s.

She’d kept Io’s letter in her special box, after all. 

_Hate me if you must, El._

_I can only beg you to understand my position. But should my pleas fall on deaf ears– as I know they have for many years– please listen, at least, to this. It hurts me to send you away. I am not so callous as you try to pretend; if I could have all my family and their chosen loves sequestered in Enbarr for the rest of our days, I would snatch that opportunity with both hands. But the world is not so kind as to let each man live with his people on an island, in a bounty of the Goddess’s creation. We all have certain roles to fulfill, for the sake of our people's well-being and our own._

_I understand that you find your assigned part undesirable. I will never tell you not to. But Faerghus is not so far as all that, and your position will be far more prestigious than that afforded to most of our siblings. If I might offer you some comfort, I would trust no other with this task, El. You are meant to be queen, to be a leader of men with no peer._

_Faerghus does not yet understand you. They requested a princess with a crest, yes, but I laughed when I accepted. Far be it for me to claim that the blood of Seiros is all any of us can offer, after all. I know that I have sent Faerghus a truly great spirit, mind, and heart. I feel no pity for your position, El, only for Prince Dimitri who does not yet understand she who his father has brought into his court._

_If you never forgive me for sending you away, it will bring me incomparable sorrow. But my comfort will be in working to unite Fodlan with Queen Edelgard the Great of Faerghus. Do keep yourself open to those possibilities, El._

_All my love, immense as it is,_

_Prince Ionius von Hresvelg of the Adrestian Empire, Heir Apparent_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise next chapter and thereafter we'll put away the introspection for like a whole five minutes and actually interact with canon students and characters? I swear? But Edelgard needed this information, and I didn't want it all to be Character A: (says thing El should know) / Edelgard: Whhaaaaaatttttt. So now she knows! 
> 
> Claude next chapter, as you likely guessed. More shenanigans.


	4. Claude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude snoops. It's what he does when in distress.

Though he’d used all of class to watch and consider them, though he’d gently probed Raphael, though he’d spent lunch laughing and joking and talking with them, Claude could not understand what was going on with Cyril and Hilda. 

From across the training grounds, Claude watched them through the corner of his eye as he slowly notched his arrow. Hilda was swinging a practice axe down towards Cyril, a whole head shorter than her. Cyril- little, common, Almyran Cyril- rolled out of the way, dropping his Officer’s Academy jacket as he went. He popped back up, grinning, before launching himself and his own practice axe at Hilda. She just braced herself, catching his weapon against her own axe, and as they leaned in towards one another, they started laughing.

Claude turned his gaze away and focused on the target. He snapped his string back and let the arrow fly. 

Thunk.

Another one off center. 

Claude let out a slight, harsh breath through his teeth. He let his arms drop and shucked the quiver off his back so it could fall into his hand. 

“Ignatz!” Claude called, drawing his fellow archer’s attention away from his own practice. “Today’s not going well. I’m going to pack it in early and go to the sauna or something to try to get back into form.”

Ignatz gave him a nod, then held up his hand to stop Leonie’s shots. Claude was able fetch his arrows and put everything away without fuss, not from Lorenz or Hanneman. No one paid him much mind, and though it was what Claude technically wanted… His hackles raised.

He didn’t yet know where these people stood opposite of him. Blatant hatred would be preferable to tepid politeness. Interpersonal relationships were harder to parse out than historical records. But they were not without a papertrail.

Claude wound his way up, towards the second floor.

The hallway of offices was deserted. Some of the doors lingered open and others were firmly closed, but there was not a person in sight. Claude casually walked towards Seteth’s office, or rather, what used to be Seteth’s office. Further down the hall, Claude could see the third professor’s office- the one _their_ professor had shunned- and there was a small sign announcing who it belonged to now; _Professor_ Seteth, no last name given. Claude kept that in mind. 

The door to Seteth’s old office, meanwhile, was fully open, and the sign next to it read _Sitri Eisner._

Claude slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. 

The room was different from what Claude remembered of this room. Rather than dark and bookish, now the windows were open and the sills were cluttered with plants. Two of the walls were still covered in bookshelves, but the religious texts only occupied one of them. The other was populated with… travelogues. Adventures stories and tall tales and what looked to be flower pressings. 

Claude’s lips quirked, and he huffed a laugh. _Cute_ , he thought, before turning towards the desk. 

“Absolutely adorable,” he whispered as he caught sight of the novel-sized portrait propped up next to a stack of paperwork. The painting showed the Bladebreaker, looking exactly like he did the last time Claude had seen him. He was gripping a chair, where a woman sat. Claude didn’t recognize her, but he did know her hair, her eyes, her slight smile, all just a shade lighter than the child in her lap. 

Teach- that was undeniably Teach in the woman’s lap- sat there with a child’s huge eyes and unruly hair and scraped knees and a curious expression on their face. Teach looked barely out of toddlerhood in this portrait, but somehow just as otherworldly as the grown version. Apparently, they got it from the mother, as _Sitri Eisner_ looked startlingly odd and just like her child; merely a little bit paler and softer. 

No surprise, Teach’s intensity came from the Bladebreaker.

Claude turned away from the portrait, pleased. He now had an approximation on who Seteth’s replacement was. Or, well… Who Seteth replaced, Claude would guess; he’d seen the grave the Eisner’s were often loitering around. The Bladebreaker always left flowers. 

As Claude flicked his eyes around the room, he could understand why he always brought such lavish floral offerings. Nearly every surface in the office was covered in a type of flower or tree or bush, some of them looking decidedly foreign. Claude recognized some Almyran tulips among the collection.

He was careful not to knock those tulips, or the hyacinths, or the roses, or the bluebells, or any of the flowers over. Claude had to tiptoe around to the otherside of the desk, and then crouched slowly and tightly so as to not disturb a tall tree in a pot next to the window. Surrounded on all sides by foliage- tickling his skin, making his hair stand up, crowding his breathing space.

Claude anxiously yanked open all the drawers. 

None of them were locked, and his elation at this was quickly crushed by the realization that there was nothing worth locking in these drawers. Another flower-press book, some stuffed toys and a knitted blanket, a weird metal stand, an old knife, a tea kettle, and stacks upon stacks of paper occupied these drawers. The papers were mostly letters from various nobles, and various financial contracts about donations. A few were formal complaints against students or teachers or knights. Claude had to snort when he noticed one filed about himself, Petra Macneary, and a girl named ‘Namine Zapaturi’, citing something about the sanctity of Seiros’s church and sullying it by trying to please ‘foreign dignitaries’ who did not even worship the Goddess. 

While interesting, none of this was helpful or relevant to what Claude wanted. He did notice that Cyril had not been included in the complaint, and while he couldn’t be sure about why, it was interesting. He recognized the name of the sender, ‘Kupala’, as one of the Alliance houses along the border, near Goneril.

Claude let out a hot breath, then stood up rapidly, making the veritable forest around him shudder. He turned his attention to the large armoire taking up most of the wall next to the door. If the student files weren’t in Sitri’s desk, they had to be in there. 

He rattled the shut doors, though, and found that the cabinet was locked. 

_Only to be expected_ , he thought, eye narrowing and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out two, thin strips of metal that he’d been forced to make a trip to the blacksmith’s to steal. She wouldn’t miss some scraps, and the other Claude would have a nifty new toy when all this was fixed.

_The other Claude._

Clenching his jaw as he meticulously picked the lock, Claude couldn’t help snorting in frustration. Another version of ‘Claude’. Funny how he didn’t go by Khalid in Fodlan, even though he wrote his name in Almyran on his papers; his full name, even with the addition of the Fodlani ‘middle name’ his mother was so proud of. 

He had a nearly ancient memory of his father wagging his finger in Mother’s face, saying, _That’s not even a Riegan practice._

 _But it is a Blaiddyd one, so still a family tradition,_ Mother had quipped, and Claude had been so confused, he’d pulled out the Fodlan history book in the royal library to try to understand. Claude hadn’t thought his mother was playing fair, pulling out a deep-cut from the history of a mysterious foreign land like that to win an argument. But no one in Almyra had ever played fair when she was still trying to catch up on all the history, and the culture, and the language either. So actually it had been pretty even ground. Claude hadn’t understood that at the time.

All he had known was that his ‘middle name’ was all his own, and special to him. He’d been very pleased with it, introduced himself to his uncle and grandfather so _proudly_ as Claude von Riegan, son of Hisham, in his accented Fodlani. And after that one shining moment where his dreams of his mother’s homeland came to fruition, it had been just one long wakeup call. 

What did that wakeup call look like for this Khalid? This Claude? This boy with two names and two homes and two strains of blood? He got to keep both. That didn’t seem fair. 

The lock clicked open, and Claude took a long breath to steady himself. This wasn’t about him. It was about gathering enough information on his classmates to understand the situation and not make a fool of himself.

Claude opened the doors, and instantly found boxes and stacks and drawers all stuffed to the brim with papers. They were separated by region, thankfully, and again by class. Calvary, infantry, magic corps, and so on, until finally, the Officer’s Academy, the highest echelon of talented or privileged youths. Claude tipped the box out, and looked inside to find eight files.

They were sorted by surname, with Marianne right at the top. Then Hilda, and Raphael, and so one. Claude was still filed under Riegan, though his full name had been written out, and there at the very bottom, oddly enough… was Cyril. 

Cyril ibn Yusef. 

“Huh,” Claude muttered. He’d never heard Cyril introduced with a familial… anything. As far as Claude- or anyone else- had known, Cyril wasn’t from anywhere; had no house or village or people to take him as their own. He was the son of no one. But here he was, listed alongside his father’s name. Claimed. Loved?

Claude gently pulled at the file, tugging it out- 

_Gah!_

There was a sudden yank on the back of Claude’s collar, dragging him backwards and sending the box tumbling to the floor. His vision went black briefly, then returned as his feet found purchase under his weight. Claude gasped and looked up, coming face-to-face with the grizzled visage of the Bladebreaker. 

“What are you doing, snooping in my wife’s office?” Jeralt growled, and Claude shrunk in on himself. 

He laughed helplessly, holding up his hands.

“Professor Hanneman sent me to pick up some files for him. Sitri wasn’t here, and I just thought I’d help myself. But it was nothing untoward, I swear it!”

A forceful hum came from Claude’s left, and he turned to look.

In front of the cabinet, holding the box and previously scattered papers, was a diminutive woman who looked too young to be the mother of a grown child. Her hair fell around her shoulders loosely, at odds with her strictly modest church garb. The expression on her face was mostly emotionless, entirely blank except for the ever so slight knitting of her eyebrows over her troubled eyes that somehow showcased a world of displeasure. 

This could only be Sitri Eisner. 

“Jeralt,” she said softly in a lilting voice. “Please let Claude go. I would like to talk to him.”

“Hmmm,” Jeralt mumbled, releasing Claude reluctantly. “You want help with the troublemaker?”

“That won’t be necessary. Claude won’t be any trouble, will he?” Sitri said, turning her wide, clear eyes on him. 

Claude was compelled to nod, still astounded that her voice had the same unwavering, unchanging quality as Teach.

Sitri smiled just slightly.

She gestured towards the chair in front of her desk, and with a wary glance back at Jeralt, Claude followed her instruction. He thought it best not to try his luck, and kept his gaze on his lap while listening the door shut behind Jeralt and the lock on the cabinet click. Claude only looked up when Sitri wound her way around her desk, weaving deftly through the plants and over the pots before settling gracefully in her soft, large armchair. 

Sitri placed a clump of papers on the space between them, then folded her hands in her lap. She looked dwarfed by the forest behind her and the plush chair and the ancient, intimidating desk. And yet, like Teach, there was a quiet control and disappointment about her entirely silent stare. It was quite the scolding.

They both remained silent for several seconds, then it was several minutes, and then Claude became incredibly aware of the ticking of the clock behind him. He swallowed. No, Claude was not going to be able to wait this woman out, no more than he could her child. It would be a fool’s errand to try. 

“Lady Sitri-”

“Lady?” she interrupted, tilting her head slightly.

Claude put a smile on his face, lopsided and bashful. 

“Just trying to play it safe?” he suggested, and she seemed minorly amused. Sitri’s lips quirked. 

“Claude,” she intoned, “why were you looking at Cyril’s file?”

He tried to mitigate how his eyes widened. How had she figured that out? Was it because of how the files fell? This woman’s eyes… How sharp were they?

There was no way she would believe Hanneman was interested in Cyril, unless…

“Professor Hanneman’s doing some new research, about crests and non-Fodlani lineages. He wants to compare _me_ to _Cyril_ , and-”

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me, Claude.”

He stopped dead. Arms still up from gesticulating and making a performance of it, Claude rigidly met eyes with Sitri. Slowly, he relaxed back into the chair, holding her gaze; unable to let go. He was grimacing, Claude knew he was grimacing and he wanted to stop, but Sitri had… Her eyes were so sad. 

Claude swallowed. 

Teach was something else already, and this woman… Claude wouldn’t be able to lie to this woman. At least… not totally. Because even though Teach’s eyes pierced your soul, Claude had never thought they understood _words_ all that well. Emotions, faces, bodies, the inner depths of one’s being, sure. But not the words. So as long as Claude wasn’t being _deceptive_ , perhaps just a little misleading…

He heaved a sigh, letting his shoulders drop with the weight of the past several hours. 

Hours. They’d been in this _dimension_ for a matter of hours, and Claude had not stopped moving since. But he still wasn’t sure what he’d been moving to accomplish. Probably just for the sake of movement.

“Cyril’s Almyran,” Claude finally said, looking towards the tulips behind Sitri’s shoulder. “Like me. We’re both from Almyran, and yet… we don’t get along as well as I wish we did.”

He flicked his eyes back to Sitri, who had tilted her head in consideration. She was waiting for him to continue, but Claude knew this was critical. 

How did the other Claude and the other Cyril get along?

All day, Cyril had been stuck to Hilda’s side. Nagging at her, pushing her, _laughing_ with her. Claude, meanwhile, had only traded a few glances and words with the boy during classes, each polite enough. Almost… overly polite. 

In this dimension, Cyril would know that his classmate was Prince Khalid. 

And yet, Cyril had never cared about royalty or formalities, or any of either Fodlan or Almyra’s nonsense. But he’d also been alone when Claude knew him- _yesterday_ \- but now there was a father’s name in the mix, and a recommendation to the Officer’s Academy, and a weird closeness with Hilda. And no war. All the records said Almyra and Leicester hadn’t been to war in over a decade. Hilda’s brother still had a fancy title, but instead of ‘Hero’, they called him ‘Leicester’s Steward’. 

“One day,” Claude finally, cautiously started up again, “I will be the ruler of Almyra. Those will be my people to guide and understand. And Cyril left Almyra. I don’t begrudge him, of course, or anyone. Honestly, if the border could _just dis-_ ” Claude paused and took a breath. “But I do want to understand. Why. And if my family contributed in some way that makes Cyril wary of me or resent me.”

Gnawing on his lip, Claude looked at Sitri. Her face hadn’t changed in the slightest, and a stab of frustration hit Claude. 

He’d tried, but gods, why couldn’t this woman be normal?

“I’m sorry,” Claude said, standing up forcefully. “I’ll just leave, whatever punishment-”

“Claude, please sit back down,” Sitri commanded. When Claude didn’t move, she extricated one of her hands from the other, and gestured at the chair. Nearly shaking, Claude sat. 

Then Sitri stood, leaning down to fetch something from her drawers. She emerged with the metal stand and tea kettle Claude had spotted earlier, a tall, glass bottle of water, and a small, fragrant box. Nearly silently, Sitri poured the water into the kettle, then placed it on the stand. She snapped her fingers to light a fire on the stand’s candle. The water on to boil, Sitri opened the box and picked through the clumps of tea inside. She went rigid suddenly, though, and blinked up at Claude.

“I’m sorry,” she said, no sounding like she was sorry or much of anything else at all, “Would serving Almyran Pine be…” She trailed off like she couldn’t find the word, but Claude just laughed haplessly. 

“I don’t mind. That’s my favorite tea.”

Sitri smiled more widely. The sight made Claude’s breath catch.

She prepared two teacups, miraculously procured from another drawer, and set about distributing the tea leaves. Then the water boiled. Sitri poured. She gave Claude one cup and took the other, reclaiming her seat. 

They sat, waiting for the tea to cool, and Sitri said, “I can’t let you read Cyril's private file, Claude. Or anyone else’s.”

Though he had to bite the inside of his cheek, Claude nodded and contritely said, “I know. I understand, I just-”

“I presume you have tried speaking to Cyril before we got to this measure?” she interrupted him, clearly having heard everything she needed or wanted to.

“Yeah,” Claude said, “of course.” Technically, he had tried to speak to Cyril about Almyra and why he left before. That time had been semi-successful, but still not great, and he tried to channel that for Sitri.

She just took a delicate sip of her tea.

“I’ve met many interesting people at Garreg Mach Monastery,” she finally said, gaze locked on her teacup. “People from all walks of life from so many places, people with so many experiences. Some years ago, Duke Goneril came here… to see his son’s graduation. He came with his wife and daughter, and retainers. A man and a woman from Almyra. There was a little boy with them, flitting around with Goneril’s daughter. They were quite sweet together. 

“I always like to ask… the people who come to Garreg Mach, I like to ask them what brings them, and about where they have been, and what they think of our monastery. They were quiet people, Duke Goneril’s retainers. The woman joked to me once that she was more fit for fighting than talking.”

Sitri huffed an odd laugh, and a smile fluttered across her face, briefly. 

“The man told me they did not come from so far away. They knew of the Goddess, and had for most of their lives. They had both come from a town near the mountains, and they’d heard many tales of Fodlan. Since Queen Tiana helped open the border, their town had grown rich. But not for people like them… ‘born and bred’ on fighting, is what he told me. They’d been told that those from Fodlan were soft, though, and there they might find work and money as fighters for some lord.

“Duke Goneril was the first they encountered, and he was not weak. But they found work all the same. As guards and… teachers. The duke wanted his children to understand the new world they would find beyond Fodlan. And so the man and woman and their child came to stay with the Gonerils.”

Claude took a sip of his tea, considering what he had heard. That didn’t sound like a sad story at all, or even a terribly odd one. It did explain Cyril and Hilda’s closeness if they had known each other since childhood, had been raised beside one another. Frankly, Claude could see Duke and Holst Goneril insisting that Cyril be sent to the Officer’s Academy with Hilda to keep her out of trouble. 

But that didn’t explain the awkwardness. 

_Maybe that’s just Cyril’s abrasiveness_ , Claude thought, taking another sip.

“Claude,” Sitri called, and he looked up to her deep eyes. Normally, deep eyes were full of something, deep like the teeming ocean or a sky of stars. But Sitri’s eyes- Teach’s eyes- were deep and dark, like a hole that had no bottom, or a void, drawing everything in. 

“Have I made a point, Claude?” Sitri asked, and Claude just raised an eyebrow at her. He honestly couldn’t tell if she was asking a real question or not, if she really wanted to know what he thought of the soundness of her argument. Claude decided not to answer.

After a few beats of silence, Sitri set her cup down with a small _click._

“Your mother and father have accomplished wonderful things, Claude. Things that, quite frankly, we at the Church were opposed to. The world beyond the Goddess’s light… it is not one I know. It is one that the Archbishop fears, though, I beg you not to think poorly of her. Because in some aspects, she was correct. Look at my kettle, Claude.”

He looked, specifically he looked towards where her fingers were nearly skimming the fire. 

“For every good in the world… there is a bad. See my flame. It makes me hot-water. Boils my tea for me. But it is also sucking air that my plants need. It is burning and breaking down the bottom of my kettle. The fire creates… but it also destroys. That is how all things are, I think. That is why people fight. More often than not, they are fighting over competing good ends. The conflict arises over what different factions are not willing to sacrifice. 

“The end of the war and opening of the border was good for many people. For traders, diplomats, weary people, and those who now have so many new things to learn and try. But it has hurt and ruined others. People like Cyril’s parents were no longer needed in their home, when merchants could move in. They were forced out. There are similar stories from people in Fodlan. The bad with the good.”

 _Cyril’s parents are dead_ , Claude thought, staring at Sitri impassively. She was trying to make a point, but she just didn’t have all the information. Claude tried not to look dismissive, but he wasn’t sure he managed it.

Sitri’s head tilted. She’d understood.

“Cyril’s story is good,” she said quietly. “Not all of them are. Perhaps Cyril knows how lucky he is. Perhaps resentment for being put in that situation lingers.”

His tea was gone. Claude looked down into the leaves for several long moments, before finally giving a low nod. 

“I understand what you’re getting at,” he said, setting his cup down. He gave Sitri a smile. “Thank you.”

A small, gentle smile came to her face, as well.

“Thank you for listening. I believe this incident can stay between us, but please, the next time you want to have tea and chat, you may simply knock on my door. Have a good day, Claude.”

He stood and saluted, before making his retreat. Out in the hallway once more, Claude gave a slight laugh. How had he gotten that lucky?

Claude hadn’t gotten the files, but small victories were still worthwhile when the other option was complete condemnation. Now, at least, he understood Cyril a little better. And Hilda.

A small smile came to his face as Claude wondered, _Does she speak Almyran?_

That would be… a sight to behold. 

Claude shot Sitri’s office one last glance, before scurrying away. He spotted Jeralt in his own office, who sent Claude a venomous scowl. Claude just grinned back. Not a bad little victory, at all.

When Claude emerged from the upper floors and into the courtyard, he looked up towards the sun, low in the sky. Classes would be ending soon. The best thing to do would be to find Edelgard and Dimitri, touch base and compare notes and hopefully soothe Edelgard’s imperial temper and Dimitri’s royal nerves. 

Claude had found that he didn’t have much patience for Fodlani royalty, resting so augustly on their bloodlines. It was different from Almyra, where if one’s wit or power wavered for a moment, they were primed to be dismissed. Then again, wasn’t that why Claude had wanted to leave so badly in the first place? He’d been exhausted from constantly being tested.

Both systems were entirely different beasts. Claude had thought for the longest time that if he could just combine the best of both… But he supposed that was exactly the type of thinking Sitri was trying to warn him away from.

 _The good with the bad, huh?_ Claude thought. _Wonder what bad came out of a prince not being orphaned and nearly a dozen kids not dying horrible deaths._

A shudder ran down his spine as Claude imagined a group of kids with wraith-white hair like Edelgard, but no faces. Somehow, though, among their number, a little pointy face with a scowl emerged, and it was Lysithea. Claude couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been subject to the same illness. He had to wonder why she wasn’t at the academy anymore.

_The good with the bad._

Hilda would know. If Claude could just catch her at dinner and surreptitiously ask, he might find some answers. 

His next scheme in mind, Claude gave a small nod for his own benefit, then turned to start heading towards the dining hall. It was still a little bit early for dinner, but he could wave Hilda down later when she stumbled in late like always. 

Claude skipped up the stairs in front of the pond, considering how he might phrase his questions. While he was pondering whether or not to refer to Lysithea by name, though, a presence suddenly invaded his space. 

Claude half-turned, body tensing and his heart rate skyrocketing. There was a dagger at his side, but before he could grab it, his assailant had grasped his dominant hand. He was shoved back against the wall, and it rattled him. As Claude caught his breath, a face pressed up close to his. He had to blink and wrack his brain to recognize her, but eventually the answer came to him. 

_Edelgard’s new bat._

Carmilla von Vestra, who looked startling like her brother, if slightly healthier. 

She leaned in far too close for Claude’s comfort, but he relaxed slightly. He didn’t think she would kill him. Hopefully. 

“Riegan,” she rasped, her hot breath hitting his face and making Claude gag in protest. “You’re to meet Edelgard in the courtyard next to the cathedral at sundown.”

Claude raised an eyebrow.

“Am I? Should I pass that along to Dimitri, or are you going to assault him, too? Ow, ow, ow! Watch that arm,” he cried as she bit into his wrist with her nails, her grip tightening painfully.

“Is this a joke to you?” she demanded. “Are all of our lives part of some kind of grand prank in your eyes? It’s not funny, it has never been funny, Riegan. Not all of us have your safety net to fall back on. Thank the Goddess, she’s getting rid of you. Graduation can’t come soon enough, and neither can sundown. Cathedral courtyard, be there and don’t try anything funny.”

Carmilla released him suddenly, moving back so quickly that it caused Claude to stumble. She marched away, up towards the dining hall, and sent a look over her shoulder that… Well, it didn’t quite _dare_ Claude to follow her. Rather, she seemed to be warning him against it. 

“What a piece of work,” Claude muttered, rubbing at his sore wrist. What did they do to those Vestras to make them such insufferable pricks? Kill their puppies?

He narrowed his eyes at her retreating back. Was she implying that Dimitri wouldn’t be attending his little meet-up with Edelgard? And how did that correspond with ‘getting rid of’ him?

Questions upon questions. Every time he thought he knew something… 

Claude huffed, and turned around to start heading back to his dorm room. Dinner could wait. It would be stupid to ask after Lysithea when Claude didn’t know if he’d ever met her in this world anyway. He needed to know who he did and did not know, what he knew about those people, about Mother and Father’s international policies, about his grandfather and uncle’s policies, who his uncle even was. Claude had only met Godfrey once before he died. Was murdered. Gods, why hadn’t that happened this time around? 

Claude halted in the middle of the yard in front of the commoner dorms.

There was no one around, so he closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to try to breathe. But it was hard when he had seen a small Almyran tapestry hanging from Cyril’s _dorm room_. Why would he even bother with decoration like that? Why was he _able to?_

Why, why, why, that was all Claude had been asking himself all day. And to actually understand, he needed more reconnaissance, more research, more books and paper and conversations, and more energy, and more time. He needed more _time_ and resources and _support._ Because Claude wasn’t used to having any help, but he also wasn’t used to having hindrances hanging onto his coattails. 

_Edelgard_ and _Dimitri_ , with their pride and their stupid comments and their self-centeredness. Edelgard’s ridiculous summons, and her stupid comments that she just couldn’t keep to herself, her opinions on choosing and her sneers as she walked by. It made Claude want to hate her. 

And he would, if he didn’t _need_ her right now.

“Shit,” Claude muttered, doubling over to duck his head between his legs, still standing up. His breaths were coming too quickly and he could feel his heart pounding too hard. Claude would wonder if he’d been poisoned, if he didn’t already know that it was a more deadly concoction.

Panic.

Gently, he crouched down, counting in Almyran.

He’d made it all the way up to twelve when he heard a soft voice say, “Claude?”

Claude startled, shooting his head up, but his vision only blurred and his balance wobbled. He fell back onto his backside, blinking his eyes rapidly. Claude felt the hand coming to rest on his back before he saw the person watching him break down, who had seen his weakness, who was-

“Claude, please breathe in time with me.”

Finally, Claude was able to perceive a shock of purple.

Lorenz. It was Lorenz, and rather than have his lips pursed like usual, he was taking long, deep, exaggerated breaths. One of Lorenz’s hands was still on Claude’s back, while the other mimed _in_ and _out_. Deeply confused but too startled to protest, Claude copied him.

Slowly, Claude’s breathing came back into rhythm, and his heart calmed. His chest still felt sore, though, leaving behind a miserable ache. And his pants were stained from the grass.

“There now,” Lorenz said sweetly when Claude looked away. “Better?”

Warily, he tipped his gaze back up towards Lorenz. Claude was too tired for his hackles to effectively raise, but managed to narrow his eyes and searched Lorenz’s gaze for any of that typical contempt or anger. All Claude saw was concern, which nearly startled his heart rate out of rhythm again.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, shrugging Lorenz’s hand off his back. “Fine, I’m just… Gods, what excuse would you believe? I’m too tired for this, come up with your own and just believe that, alright?” 

Finally, Lorenz’s lips pursed like they were always supposed to be, and his eyebrows were doing the right thing. If Claude actually thought Lorenz could move his face in ways that weren’t small and refined, he’d say he looked annoyed. As it was, Lorenz seemed positively miffed. 

“I’m taking you to your room,” he said, and Claude barely restrained a groan.

“I really don’t need an escort. I’m fine.”

“Oh, yes, perfectly well,” Lorenz sneered, standing up. Instead of brushing off his pants- as Claude had expected- though, he reached out a hand for Claude to grasp. Despite himself, Claude took it. “In that case, why don’t we adjourn to my room, and I’ll make us both a cup of tea?”

“No more tea today, please.”

“Coffee?” Lorenz suggested, and a creeping suspicion started to curl in Claude’s stomach.

“No thanks,” he said cautiously, walking away slowly. “I honestly think I’m just going to go lie down for a little bit.”

Lorenz tilted his head, and he locked his hands behind his back in what Claude recognized as a nervous gesture. He followed Claude’s cautious retreat with his eyes, before making a snap movement. Lorenz started walking beside him.

“I think I might recuse myself from dinner, as well.”

“Please don’t,” Claude pled softly, but Lorenz doggedly kept his head angled forward and his stride consistent, heading for the dorms.

Claude briefly considered changing his own course, heading to the library or the room he’d co-opted earlier. But ultimately, he decided it wouldn’t matter. They’d split off to their respective rooms anyway.

Lo and behold, Lorenz retreated to his own room with a polite nod of farewell, while Claude wearily trasped to his door. He entered his bedroom, and instantly collapsed on his bed. Claude snatched a pillow he didn’t recognize and brought it to his mouth, and then he screamed. 

_Am I friends with Lorenz? Am I_ friends _with Lorenz?_

This was a nightmare. A heinous, awful nightmare, sent to him by a cruel god. 

Claude didn’t… He didn’t want to know where the cracks in his dream were. Where breaking down the barrier between Fodlan and Almyra was a bad thing, and how it hurt people, the ways that it wasn’t worth it. He didn’t want to be friends with _Lorenz_ , his biggest obstacle in the Alliance. And why in this universe? 

Claude knew he shouldn’t drop himself down the _why_ rabbit hole again, but what had changed that erased instead of increased Lorenz’s distaste for him, why-

Why did Claude have to work so hard, when everything he’d ever wanted had been handed to this Claude?

Why did this Khalid Claude get to keep both of his names?

How come Claude’s parents couldn’t have done this for him, instead of heaping trial after trial on his shoulders because they wouldn’t answer for their selfishness?

As Claude sat up slowly, tears pricked his eyes. He rubbed at his face gently, swallowing hard. _It doesn’t matter_ , he told himself. Not yet, it didn’t. Claude couldn’t hold his mother and father to account when he didn’t even know if he was going to ever see them again, ever escape this dimension and go back to his home.

Home. 

Claude hadn’t known where to call home in ages. Funny how looking at a slightly bigger map made the answer so clear.

A fleeting smile came to his face as Claude was cheered by the thought.

Bigger maps. It wouldn’t just take bigger maps or the Sword of the Creator or a few smiles. But it was easier to manage when he focused on where to start. He needed to start with bigger maps.

And today, in the present and in this place, Claude needed to look out the window and see how long he had before he answered Edelgard’s summons. He hated working on her schedule, but Claude could manage a little give for the sake of their tenuous alliance. For now.

He ambled to the counter in front of the window, and- just like his own- it was cluttered with books and scrolls. Some were written in Almyran. Claude recognized one from his father’s library, a long scroll with a poem written on it about tragic love under the moonlight. His father used to read that one to Claude whenever he’d cried, pulling him up into his large lap and letting Claude sniffle himself out to the sound of a beautiful recitation. _This story is your birthright,_ Father would say.

The other Claude got to take that birthright across the mountains. 

Claude fingered the scroll as he opened the filthy window, and he saw that the sun hadn’t quite gotten to setting yet. It was close, though. Claude would say he had another half hour or so before he had to head out.

Enough time to read more history books or try to parse through his correspondence or start a notebook to track all the changes. Instead of doing any of that, though, Claude picked up the poem, and walked back to his bed. Enough time to read and feel a little bit romantic before shutting that all out again.

He unwound the scroll carefully, mindful of its age. As he finished opening it, though, from between the folds, out fell a small, glittering object. It landed in his lap, and Claude placed the scroll aside to pick it up in surprise. His fingers wound around a golden chain, and at the end was an oval locket.

Claude’s mouth opened a little in shock. Curious, he thumbed over the ‘E’ engraved on the front of the locket, and then he pried it open. Inside was a small, folded piece of paper. He put the locket next to the scroll and gently unfurled the piece of paper, which looked like it had been creased so many times it was nearly falling apart.

It read, _With love as vast and steadfast as the stars, Khalid Claude ibn Hisham al-Aziz._

Claude blinked. 

His heart caught in his throat, he carefully wrapped the paper back in its original state and placed it in the locket. He eyed the scroll, contemplating whether to place the necklace between the folds of his favorite love poem again. Claude decided against it. Instead, he just tossed the locket around in his hands, considering.

He had to give himself credit. It was a damnably romantic present. He just had to wonder who it was meant for.

_Thank the Goddess, she’s getting rid of you._

Claude whistled. 

Did Dimitri know? Ha! No wonder Carmilla freaked out when he suggested inviting the prince.

The real question was if Edelgard knew. Claude would bet that was why she’d summoned him, to discuss and end their counterparts' relationship. 

Claude’s eyebrows suddenly knit at that thought. That was sad. That wasn’t fair, either. Maybe he could ask-

A knock echoed through his room.

Fighting a wail of despair, Claude looked at his door with trepidation. He briefly contemplated the window, but eventually decided he had to answer whoever was there. _It might be Dimitri,_ he thought with a long sigh. 

Claude stood, and walked over to slowly turn the knob. He opened his door wide, like he always did, and saw Lorenz standing in the hallway with a steaming teapot in hand. 

“Oh,” Claude moaned through his teeth. He spent a moment struggling for words, forced to look at Lorenz’s smug face. Finally, he said, “I told you I didn’t want any tea. I’m fine, and tea won’t solve-”

“Then I will drink tea,” Lorenz interrupted very un-nobly, before shouldering his way past Claude and into the room, “and you will speak.”

Lorenz took the liberty of gathering the scattered papers on Claude’s desk and shuffling them together in a neat and entirely out of order pile. He then placed his teapot down and took a single cup from his pocket. Lorenz poured the tea, pulled out the desk chair, and turned it around so it face the bed. Then he sat down with his legs crossed. Lorenz picked up his cup and took a long sip. At last, Lorenz cast a long look at the bed, before briefly looking at Claude’s face, then scanning down his body. Lorenz’s gaze lingered on his hand, and that was when Claude remembered the locket hanging from his fist.

“Oh my,” Lorenz said, looking genuinely distressed. “Love troubles?”

Claude contemplated screaming again. 

He never wanted to hear the phrase ‘love troubles’ come out Lorenz’s mouth again. In fact…

“Don’t ever say that phrase again,” Claude commanded, but Lorenz just chuckled, taking a sip of his tea. 

“Nothing to be ashamed of, my friend. We all experience woes.”

Claude gagged.

“I applaud your chosen comforts in heartbreak. Poetry is the greatest salve for a wounded soul, I think, and much healthier than chasing ducks in ponds.”

Lorenz sent Claude a pointed look, and Claude scoffed.

“I never-” he started. He cut himself off, because Claude didn’t definitively know that. Lorenz didn’t notice his lapse, though.

“You assuredly did. Who do you think had to guide you inside and clean the pond scum off you before dinner? And then swiftly turn around and stop Hilda from cutting her hair off. I swear, you were both insufferably dramatic children.”

“Don’t throw stones,” Claude warned warily, still trying to get a feel for what was happening, bluffing for everything he was worth. “And we were just kids who very badly wanted it to be serious.”

“Eleven is a terrible age,” Lorenz agreed with a sigh, taking another long drink. “Though, your romantic entanglements are hardly lesser now. More sordid, but surprisingly less dramatic. Tell me, what has happened with Her Highness?”

Taking a seat on the bed, Claude ventured to say, “I still don’t know why I told you about it.”

“You didn’t.”

A strike of panic like lightning shuddered down Claude’s spine at making the wrong move. Lorenz, though, didn’t look overly troubled. He took another sip, and Claude was tempted to slap the cup right out of his hands. He didn’t, of course. But he was tempted.

“Thinking you could hide anything from me, and not confiding your- I am obligated to repeat- ill-advised tryst to me was your first mistake.”

“But not Hilda?” Claude tried again, hoping Lorenz would take that question in whatever way best suited his pride and not as an indictment of ignorance.

Lorenz did.

“That was actually a prudent measure. Bless Hilda, she can’t keep secrets. You and Her Highness would have been discovered and called home in a matter of hours. Though, she will be rather hurt when the whole thing comes to light. If it does.” 

Lorenz tilted his head, and lowered his cup to his lap. He leaned slightly forward, and his eyebrows had dipped. He looked worried. Concerned.

“Will this tryst be coming to light?” he asked quietly.

This time, Claude just smiled bitterly. He knew the answer to this one.

“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I think she’s going to end things in, oh, a few minutes. Sundown. Carmilla had some choice words to say when she told me the meeting spot.”

Lorenz breathed out a long, mournful, “Ohhh.” He reached across the space to place his hand on Claude’s knee. 

“I am sorry, my friend. I know you truly cared for her.”

“Yeah,” Claude mumbled, looking down and running his thumb over the locket, trying to play up the awkwardness and not explode out of his skin. How did he ever end up in this situation? “Yeah, well, I guess the risks just got too high. The Empire isn’t the Alliance, after all. And happy endings are rare.”

Lorenz huffed, and Claude heard the clink of porcelain on wood, before the seat next to him on the bed dipped. Gently, Lorenz pried the lockets from Claude’s fingers. He looked at it for a long moment, then mumbled, “Hilda does have impeccable taste.”

Before Claude could question that too deeply, Lorenz turned to look him in the eyes, a surprisingly intense look to him.

“You know,” Lorenz said, “that I would never advise you to do something that would jeopardize the Alliance, or your people in Almyra, or even the Imperials or the Fhaerghusi. Especially not for selfish reasons, pointlessly romantic reasons that serve only the self, for reasons that can be tossed aside with no major injury.”

“I know that, Lorenz.” 

_Gods do I know that_ , Claude thought, raising an eyebrow and scotting a little away. Lorenz just leaned in closer, though, and reached for Claude’s hand. He placed the locket on Claude’s palm, then cupped it in both of his hands.

Lorenz captured Claude’s gaze again, and he said, “But you also know that you are the cleverest man I know. You are also my friend. If anyone can broker peace between four nations over a broken betrothal and reforge something better than it was before, it will be you. And you have not had very much that was your own. If you have a love you deem worthwhile, that has shaken you from monotony and apathy, that makes you better, then I implore you to grasp it. Do not let go. Your princess will draw strength from you, if you only give her the opportunity. Do not let fear tear you both apart.”

Lorenz sat back, and he let out a disgruntled huff, shaking his head and mussing his carefully styled hair in the process. 

“Your mother and father,” he spat with intensity that made Claude’s eyes widen, “have not consumed the world’s supply of happy endings.”

Claude sat helplessly for several moments, looking between Lorenz’s earnest face and their clasped hands. Within the cup of Lorenz’s hands, Claude wrapped his fingers around the locket, trying to stall for time, trying to find something to say. He looked up at Lorenz’s shining eyes and swiftly had to glance away.

Claude was suddenly terrified that Lorenz was being sincere. 

It had been an eternity since Claude had dealt with sincerity. If he had ever confronted sincerity, that was, rather than being a trusting fool. He didn’t know how to take it now, of all times, from the copy of the person that had continuously made Claude’s life so difficult.

Eventually, though, Claude swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Thank- Thank you, Lorenz,” he finally croaked, shocked at both the turn this conversation had taken and himself. “I… don’t quite know what to do with that. But thank you.”

Lorenz pulled away with a pleased huff, standing up and walking back towards his tea. 

“It is a good thing then,” he said over his shoulder as he collected the cup and teapot, “that I know exactly what you are to do with my elegant and eloquent advice. Go and mend your relationship with Princess Edelgard. If such a thing does prove impossible, though, knock on my door afterwards. I do have slightly stronger blends of tea and coffee, and…”

Lorenz coughed.

“A certain bottle of brandy that would pair well.”

Claude laughed. Suddenly and surprising even himself, he laughed. Lorenz sniffed in response, and swatted gently at Claude with his foot.

“Rogue,” he cursed. “You better be on your way. Sunset has begun, and Princess Edelgard is not one to be kept waiting.”

Then, Lorenz made his exit, throwing one last encouraging smile at Claude as he left.

Claude stood, locket in his hand, shocked. He was still laughing, though.

 _Well, that was something_ , he thought. 

Claude pulled the locket up to eye level to look at it, a small smile on his face. He didn’t know who this Lorenz was… But he was something. A good something. A surprisingly attentive friend. It had been a long time since Claude had a friend like that.

_I’m sorry, Sitri, but I’m just not seeing that bad._

With a soft sigh, Claude headed for the door. Somehow, Lorenz had managed to bumble him into a better mood, with all that talk about love and the stiff comfort and _quite_ the stream of compliments. The situation was honestly rather funny. Surely even Edelgard throwing a tantrum couldn’t stand up against this farce. 

Claude wound his way up to the cathedral, watching the sun start to set as he went. It was an upsettingly nice day, and the orange and pink sky looked especially beautiful from the bridge.

Before he woke up in this warped reality, he’d been planning to sneak into town to buy some sweets from the kitchen, eat them on the bridge at exactly this time of day. He’d also had a half-formed idea… to maybe share with the other Golden Deer. It would have been so easy to lure them to the common room, too. 

Lysithea and Raphael would have followed their stomachs. Ignatz would have trailed after Raphael, while Hilda appeared anytime more than four people gathered together at Garreg Mach. She probably would have managed to wrangle Lorenz into getting them drinks or other snacks. Leonie, though, Claude would have put a slight bit more effort into. He would have challenged her to darts. 

Of course, that all hinged on Claude managing to gather the courage to ask them. 

It was weirdly harder to ask when you didn’t need something from someone.

As he emerged into the courtyard and spied a brown head of hair, Claude couldn’t help but wonder if she also found it difficult to talk to those she wasn’t using. If all her invitations were sent through a threatening vassal for the sake of intimidation, as opposed to pretty stationary with the intent of kindness. If Edelgard often spent her evenings alone, sitting on a ledge, hunched over. 

“Edelgard,” he called as he walked over. 

Edelgard’s head spun around to level an intense glare on him as Claude turned around and rested his elbows on the ledge.

“You summoned?” he asked, and her annoyance transformed into shock. Edelgard’s eyes widened and she bared her teeth. Her cheeks pinked, and Claude had to laugh. 

“It’s you,” she hissed nastily. “You’re El’s lover.”

“It’s me,” he crooned, and she ducked her head and groaned. Deeply amused, Claude said, “Did you not know you were asking _me_ to come and chat? What were you planning? To run off Sylvain or something?”

Edelgard made a strangled noise that would have been inelegant coming from anyone else. As it was, it merley sounded like she was dismissing him with all her lofty authority, clearing him away as one would phlegm. It didn’t hide her embarrassment, though.

“I had to work around the assumption that I knew who the lover was, and Carmilla was tight-lipped. Not even the letters had signatures, I had to do my best with what I had.”

Claude hummed in mocking agreement, and he tossed the locket up so that Edelgard could see.

“No signature, huh?” he said. “Then this must be yours. The paper with the sign-off is inside.”

He threw it at her, and Edelgard managed to catch it easily. She didn’t open the locket though, instead inspecting it briefly before demanding, “Why do you have this?”

Claude shrugged.

“Beats me. Found it in my room. Suppose you left it there after a little _disrobing?_ ”

The look of disgust on Edelgard’s face was delightful.

She turned away with a haughty sniff, and Claude heard an odd crinkle. He looked down towards her hands, and noticed a paper trapped in her fist. Claude raised an eyebrow, and he opened his mouth to ask. But Edelgard beat him to it.

“I suppose this makes everything easier,” she said, turning back to look at him. “Less messy.”

“Were you really expecting to break some poor lad’s heart this evening?” 

The words were barely out of his mouth when Edelgard definitively said, “Yes.”

Claude whistled.

“Cold.

Edelgard’s mouth twitched down, and she flicked her hair over her shoulder as she turned her gaze towards the scenery.

“As if you’re any better, Claude von Riegan,” she said, “I suppose you would string your paramour along while you played pretend at a relationship that mattered to someone. That’s its own kind of cruelty. I know what I am, but don’t try to conceal your own faults. I know you, Riegan. I know your kind.”

“Should I ask what kind that is?” Claude drawled lightly, turning away so that she couldn't see how his jaw had clenched and his eyes had tightened. Edelgard really thought she was the cleverest person around. As a clever person, Claude resented that, and he resented her quiet assurance in her own actions.

She was wrong. She didn’t know a thing about him.

“So I suppose,” Claude blurted out, “that you think that we should publically break off this little affair for our counterparts and go on our merry way?”

Edelgard’s head dipped, and Claude didn’t wait for her to complete her nod.

“I can’t help but wonder who’s the cruel one now,” he said, staring at her surprised and resentful expression. “What, we can’t play-act for a little while to preserve a relationship that, to use your words, _matters_ to the people whose lives we’ve stolen? Throw that locket off the edge right now just to make our lives easier? Even I wouldn’t have expected such callousness from you.”

Edelgard’s shoulders drew back in very restrained affront. 

“Do not presume you know my thought process,” she said, and her hands must have clenched even tighter, because Claude heard the paper crinkling again. “And do not present wild schemes for the sole purpose of insulting me.”

Claude scoffed, but he leaned in closer so that his nose almost touched Edelgard’s.

“Come on,” he whispered. “We could do it.”

“It’s not a matter of _ability._ ”

“Then what is it that you’re afraid of, Princess?”

Hair suddenly smacked into Claude’s face as Edelgard turned her head, and he tried to pull away before any of it got into his mouth. As he gagged and sat up, he heard Edelgard sniff. When he looked back over to her, she was smoothing out her paper in her lap, the locket’s chain wound around her palm. Without looking at him, Edelgard shoved the paper into Claude’s face, fingers shaking. 

“That is why this is a stupid thing to continue. I didn’t think I’d have to convince you, Riegan, rather than a lovesick fool. But, please, have at it.”

Warily, Claude grasped the paper. He stuck his tongue out at her turned back, but then looked at the wonkily drawn chart. He had to bite his lip suddenly to keep from laughing, though, ducking his head.

Edelgard had drawn little, cute approximations of the faces of several people on what looked like a family tree of sorts. From the first glance, Claude immediately recognized both Dimitri’s and _Ferdinand’s_ tiny portraits. There were lines coming from both of their heads, Dimitri’s line connecting to what looked like Edelgard, and Ferdinand’s reaching a little girl who looked a little like her.

“What is this?” Claude asked, barely able to keep from snickering.

“A table of my family’s marriages and betrothals,” Edelgard replied, and her voice was grave and solemn. Claude looked up at her face, and her features were pulled tightly, her eyes especially drawn, as well as surprisingly shiny. Her gaze was focused on the horizon. Claude noticed that her hands were still shivering, ever so slightly.

He sobered. 

Claude looked back down.

_Ionius X ----------- Augusta von Nuvelle_  
_Brynhilde ----------- Godfrey von Riegan_  
_Visna ----------- Otto von Bergliez_  
_Wilhelm ----------- Sofia von Ochs_  
_Friedrich ----------- Odelle Marguerite Rowe_  
_Lycaon ----------- Dierdre von Rusalka_  
_Marta ----------- Emile von Hyrm_  
_Beron ----------- ?_  
_Edelgard ----------- Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd_  
_Liesl ----------- Ferdinand von Aegir_  
_Rolf ----------- Lysithea von Ordelia_

He sucked in a quick, deep breath, and his fingers tightened around the edges of the paper. Lysithea’s little portrait… her hair was colored in. How did Edelgard know that? Had she guessed or was it something else?

Claude closed his eyes and firmly told himself that the how _didn’t matter._

Lysithea- small and frail and too young to be at the Academy- was alive. 

With slow and deliberate movements, Claude unclenched his hands and opened his eyes, looking up to see Edelgard’s intense gaze fixed on him.

“I know some of these names,” he said at length. He knew most of those names. Dimitri, Ferdinand, _Lysithea_. He’d met people from House Hrym and House Bergliez, and had heard of Nuvelle, Rowe, Ochs, and Rusalka. Claude had seen those names on maps, all influential houses in their own rights. 

And, of course, there was Godfrey von Riegan. Uncle Godfrey who would be inheriting House Riegan and therefore the Alliance in this dimension. 

_The heirs of the Kingdom and the Alliance. The border houses. Half the powerful Imperial houses._

Claude clenched his jaw to fight against a shudder of dismay. He narrowed his eyes at Edelgard, who just nodded, gracefully dipping her neck to lean closer to him.

“Do you see now, Riegan? There is a graceful and delicate dance at play. A meticulously choreographed opera number, and we are actors who don’t know any of the steps. El and your counterpart want to have a solo, but they’ll be knocking every other person on that stage over if they do so. I won’t be trying to navigate my way through that field of traps. I won’t trip anybody and call attention to myself unnecessarily, not when Ionius has the Empire hanging upon a thread.”

“A thread?” Claude asked, and a sharp, nasty, _bitter_ smile flashed across Edelgard’s face for a second. Then her expression smoothed over again, and she pulled back. She turned to look at the horizon once more.

When she spoke, her voice was like ice.

“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out.”

“I never said I hadn’t,” Claude said. He hesitated for a moment, then made a snap decision to haul himself up beside her on the ledge. Claude swung his legs around, and then he was hanging over the edge, an inch from death and looking at a beautiful view. You could see the sun well from here, and the extra elevation really did make a difference.

Somehow, even in the dying light, Edelgard’s warm, flushed, healthy visage still looked sad. 

“I wonder,” Claude said cautiously, “about the emperor and all eleven heirs growing sick with an illness no one knows anything about directly after a political insurrection. I wonder-”

_If it wasn’t planned, executed, a cover-up. If it wasn’t murder._

Edelgard snorted. 

She looked at him, a carefully polite smile on her face. 

“Would you like a prize for figuring it out?” She asked, and her voice was placid but her eyes burned. 

Claude drew in a shuddering breath, and asked, “Who else knows?”

“Who doesn’t know?” she snapped back, a sudden lash of fury that startled him. “Dimitri? He’s a fool, he believes illness still runs rampant in the Empire as it did the Kingdom, even though the technology they used to cure their problems came from us. Beyond him and a few of the other children who can’t be bothered to think much about the misfortunes of others, there aren’t many who believe the lie. If they did believe it… I don’t know if ignorance or apathy would make me hate this world more.”

Stunned, Claude licked his lips. He wanted to turn away from her, from Edelgard’s carefully refined fury, but he couldn’t look away. There was so much tension in her. Yet, Claude didn’t think she’d shatter even if he took a hammer to her porcelain skin. Her eyes weren’t as calcified and they burned more brightly than the stars, making her strong from within. 

Claude didn’t know what to do with that, but he didn’t want to let go of it either.

“Would it mean anything if I said I’m sorry?” he asked, and it hurt his chest to realize that he really meant it. He was sorry. 

Edelgard sat, unnaturally quiet for several moments, just soaking in the silence and stillness. She gazed steadily at him, not twitching in the slightest. Except for the way her eyes tightened.

At length, she said, “No.” 

But Claude wasn’t sure she meant it. 

“I’m sorry,” he told her, and she drew in a shuddering breath. “I understand why you’re scared of rocking the boat, of unintentionally ruining this good thing they seem to have going on here. I… I’m scared too. Of a lot of things. I’ve barely spoken to my classmates all day, I’m so scared they’re going to hate me-”

_Shit._

Claude cursed himself.

Is that… had he been avoiding them by spending scurrying around today, by skipping training and dinner and keeping to himself. 

Claude drew in a breath, and told himself, _later_. He would deal with that thought later. After this conversation.

Shakily, he continued. 

“But… we don’t have to worry about being scared alone. You, me, Dimitri, we’re all in this boat together.”

A soft scoff came from Edelgard, but… there was the slightest trace of a smile under her contemptuous stare.

“Why do I feel like this all leads up to you trying to convince me to fake being in a relationship with you?” she said softly.

Claude smiled at her, just a little. 

“Because it does. For the sake of our counterparts, we should,” he implored.

Edelgard paused for a moment, then took in a deep breath that she immediately wasted by letting out a massive sigh. She remained quiet. As she contemplated, Claude amused himself by focusing on the tapping of her nails on the flagstone, which grew fast then slowed several times.

He startled when she suddenly, softly said, “I don’t- I don’t want to make life difficult for Io.”

Claude had to take a moment to fully process what Edelgard was saying. He had to focus to comprehend that she wanted to- forcefully and without permission- end someone else's relationship because she didn’t want to disappoint her big brother. He bit his lip to stifle a sigh when he did figure it out, though.

He took a moment to himself before trying again.

“Edelgard,” Claude implored, “you aren’t making life difficult for anybody, not adding on to anything that wasn’t already there. We’re just… holding place.”

“If you aren’t helping to alleviate a problem, you are aiding that problem,” she muttered, almost petulantly. 

This time, Claude did sigh. He didn’t necessarily _disagree_ with her, but now was not the time, and this was not the situation. She didn’t need to fix another dimension’s problems.

 _Oh no_ , Claude though, _I sound like Father talking about Fodlan._

Despite the sudden uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, Claude elected to put on his best impression of his disappointed father.

“Edelgard-” he started.

“But I do understand what you are saying,” Edelgard swiftly interrupted him, turning to look Claude in the eyes. “It is a problem for another day. For now, survival is all that matters. And it gives us good reason to meet in private. It won’t be too hard to invite Dimitri along, if it is framed as the betrothed as intruding on the affair’s outings.”

“My,” Claude laughed slightly, bitterly amused. “Seen a few operas, Princess? That’s positively sordid. You want to start wearing that locket publically, too, just to really sell it?”

Edelgard turned away with her nose up, and Claude laughed louder. She didn’t let go of the locket, though. As he watched her fingers grip the necklace tighter, Claude smiled at the back of her head, at her long brown hair that he still wasn’t used to. It would be harder to pick her out of a crowd now. 

_Is that the bad?_ he thought snidely, and that was when Claude decided he needed to end this and go to bed. He needed to collect his thoughts alone after such a day. He just had… one more thing to say.

“I’m glad we’ve had this talk,” Claude said with a clap of his hands. He swung around and back down from the ledge. “Let’s all take lunch tomorrow in the room we were in earlier to draw up some plans and compare notes.”

“I’ll tell, Dimitri,” Edelgard said flatly, and Claude took that as his cue to leave.

He raised a hand in farewell, and turned to leave.

Before he walked away, though, Claude called over his shoulder, “And Edelgard?”

She hummed to show she was paying attention, and he turned around to look at her once more. Edelgard’s face was blank and the nearly set sun was casting her all in shadow. But it suited her.

“Thank you,” Claude said. “For sharing something that-” _that makes you feel vulnerable._ “Something equivalent to what I shared with you this morning about my own family. You didn’t have to even the playing field, but you did.”

Briefly, Edelgard blinked at him in surprise.

Then she said, “That was not my intention. You presume too much.”

Claude snorted. 

“‘Course, Princess,” he said with a slight wave. “Whatever you say. Good night, and I’ll see in the morning, _darling_.”

Claude laughed at her noise of disgust all the way back to his room. Then he knocked on Lorenz’s door to tell him the good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! I took a while off writing for the sake of my remotely composed and researched senior thesis, but now I’m back in the saddle. And, geez, I started with a lot of stuff, huh?
> 
> But in old news, Fire Emblem really said "fuck your lore", didn't they? Khalid? Khalid?! I always wondered if he had an Almyran name, but WE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THIS EARLIER. Also. When did we learn that Edelgard's siblings were half-siblings? That the Emperor had a harem? I didn't know this, where was this written! I swear, Intys, you are fucking testing me. Next week they announce that Dimitri is actually adopted from Sreng, new DLC coming in August-!
> 
> But okay, okay. I'm done (FUCKING KHALID AND NADER NEVER-). On another note, tell me what y’all think about the chapter, about Khalid, about Sitri, and Lorenz, and Edelgard. If you think I did Claude justice; I'm not sure I did, he's slippery that one. Also, the affair! Congrats to @ QuertysHuman, ;), UnlikelyEgg, and Lily_Dragon for guessing correctly! Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and any comments or kudos you might feel inclined to leave. Next time we will still be in Claude’s pov as fake dating shenanigans ensue.


	5. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in the Original Timeline-

Dimitri did not remember falling asleep, but he woke up. 

He was in… the large infirmary, the one with rows of sick beds and light pouring through the windows. When he started to sit up- aching all the while- he saw a stray physician hurrying towards the back, and he noticed the scattered students on other beds. A knight, Byleth Eisner, was even lying across from Dimitri, but the infirmary didn’t seem particularly busy. 

Why was Dimitri here?

He certainly felt like he belonged in the infirmary. 

There was an uncomfortable pull at his back and a cold, clammy shiver running up and down all his limbs. His hands, too, ached and tingled as he flexed them on the sheets. His mouth was bone dry. A throbbing banged in his head, and it spiked when Dimitri threw his legs over the side of the bed.

He rubbed at his eyes as lights erupted in his vision, breathing raggedly. Dimitri felt hungover, but specifically the type of hungover he’d been the night after he dueled Annette while they were both drunk and he took a Sagittae to the chest. Except this sensation was even odder, because it burned coldly and there were odd, full body aches everywhere that magic didn’t usually leave. 

A decidedly uncomfortable sensation, all around.

As Dimitri tried to put his breathing back into rhythm, voices drifted over towards him. He looked up, and two beds over two men were… No, that was Claude hunched over a prone figure, while a vaguely familiar man loomed over them both. They were arguing, Dimitri realized with a start, angry whispers that weren’t distinguishable but sounded nasty.

He stood to see was the commotion, and the second he put his weight on his feet, Dimitri hissed.

Pain raced up his back like a lightning bolt, before gradually fading away. 

_What was that?_ Dimitri thought, before putting the fading pain out of his mind as Claude made an especially loud noise on indignation.

“I’m just supposed to believe that?” Claude hissed.

Dimitri walked around the beds to draw up behind Claude, who was tense as a spring. His hands were planted on the bed next to the person laying there, and Dimitri had to lean around Claude to see who it was. When he did, though, the first thing Dimitri noticed was a shock of white hair. Then he focused upon the face, which was contorted in pain, and that was-

“El?” Dimitri exclaimed in horror.

She was drawn up, arms wrapped around her body and knees tight against her chest, and Edelgard was shivering. Dimitri could hear quiet whimpers falling from her mouth and there were a few stray tears on her checks. The sight was horrifying, to see brave El, strong El who charged through life like a bull reduced to-

Dimitri could only draw his eyes away as the other man drew in a sharp breath.

When Dimitri looked up at the man standing across El’s bed, though, he realized that he was not quite a stranger.

It was the eyes that did it.

They were the same shape and color as Carmilla’s- sickly greenish yellow- but it was the look in those eyes that Dimitri knew recognized so well from boyhood travels to the Empire. He could still remember with the utmost clarity looking into the eyes of an older, much taller boy who loomed behind the girl who was apparently his betrothed. Dimitri was supposed to be meeting her for the first time, but he had only been able to focus on that glare. 

Hubert von Vestra had never liked Dimitri, not when they were ten and thirteen, and not when they saw each other at Lady Marta’s wedding last year. 

What on the Goddess’s green earth was he doing at the Officers Academy?

Was El… was Edelgard’s condition that bad?

“What’s wrong with her?” Dimitri blurted out, looking back towards El. He reached out to place his hand upon her head, to try to offer some comfort, but Dimitri’s wrist was snatched. Vestra was leaning across the bed now, scowling with his lips pulled back, a glare full of teeth.

“Her condition,” Vestra gritted out, “is none of your concern.”

“Like hells it isn’t!” Claude countered. “She needs a physician, she needs a healer, not whatever you’re planning.”

“Lady Edelgard will be perfectly fine in my care. You’d do best to not to stick your nose in things you know nothing about, Riegan.”

 _Riegan?_ Dimitri thought, puzzled, but Claude let the name slide, too busy following a different path of anger.

“And who are you to know what’s best for her?” Claude said in what Dimitri and Felix always referred to as his _‘I am heir to half of this continent and that includes a third of Fodlan, so don’t try me’_ voice. Not many enjoyed contradicting Claude after such displays, not even his own classmates. But Hubert von Vestra merely stared at Claude as if he was scum on his shoe.

“And who are you to contradict me?” Vestra sneered.

For a moment, Dimitri feared Claude would hit Vestra. Instead, he drew up, shoulders falling back and jaw clenching. Then a new anxiety came to Dimitri, that Claude would say something he would regret, something he couldn’t take back. But Claude didn’t. 

Instead, he pleaded, “El’s in pain. She needs help, not Imperial ego. So, I swear, by your gods and mine, that if she isn’t better next I see her… I’m going to _ruin_ you.”

“Frightening,” Vestra said in a tone that said he didn’t find it very frightening at all.

When he stooped to pick El up, though, Vestra did so with the utmost care. Her hair was carefully arranged, and her legs were drooped over one of his arms gently. When Vestra- with startling strength in his waifish body- had El resting against his shoulder, she instinctively turned towards him, wrapping one arm around his neck. She groaned into his shirt.

“You’re alright,” Vestra said, a surprising tenderness in his voice. Or perhaps not surprising. When they were children, Vestra had always been the first to tend to injuries and he was always hovering by when they had played dangerous games. _A glorified nanny_ , Glenn had called him.

Vestra walked away with El, while Claude remained upsettingly still next to Dimitri.

The look on his face was gutted, and Dimitri could empathize. El, after all, was what united them. Dimitri didn’t think he would like Claude so much if he wasn’t so uncharacteristically devoted to her.

Dimitri set a hand on his shoulder, which Claude did not shake off.

“It will be alright,” Dimitri said. “The Vestras… they are uniquely dedicated to the Hresvelgs. I imagine Hubert knows her medical history and needs better than anyone in the monastery could. And I’d bet he’ll send for Carmilla, you know her healing skills are-”

“Hubert, that’s his name? El’s mentioned him. But, damn,” Claude cursed, running a hand through his hair. “What’s wrong with her? With me? Are you feeling-”

 _“Yes,”_ Dimitri interjected, relieved he wasn’t the only one. “I cannot begin to fathom what has happened. What caused this.”

Claude let out a ragged sigh. Dimitri watched as his fingers slowly reached out towards the pillow, where he plucked something up. It was a white hair, Dimitri realized, when Claude held it up to the light.

“Neither can I,” Claude breathed out through gritted teeth. “Neither can I.”

_______________________________________

Everything hurt.

From her scalp to the tips of her toes, from her fingernail beds to her ribs, her neck, her hips, behind her eyes, her thighs, her lungs, and her heart… Goddess, her heart hurt, worse than any pain El had ever felt before. It was like- like- like pure fire was being pumped out of her heart instead of blood, and it _hurt._

El let out another pathetic cry.

She knew that wasn’t an act befitting of a Hresvelg, especially not in public, but she couldn’t help it. She was shushed gently, but El didn’t want to hush. She wanted to weep and for someone to make it better, make it _stop._

“Just a little longer,” the person carrying her rasped, and El knew that voice, she did. Even if it was a little rougher and gravelier than she remembered. She leaned into that voice and his body instinctively, years and years of comfort ingrained in her. She knew who it was, but she just couldn’t _think_ right now, and it made no sense, it made no sense that-

“Hugh,” she whimpered.

Why was Hubert here?

Oh Goddess, she must truly be dying. That was the only reason. Hubert had come here with Io to pay her the last rites as befit a princess and to say goodbye and to tell her what a disappointment she was. Dying before she could secure the throne of Faerghus! Io would never forgive her, but Hugh, surely Hubert would tell her she did good enough before the end.

“I don’t want to die,” El wailed, but even to her ears, it wasn’t a proper wail. Her voice was too weak, her very being too miserable to even make proper noise. She choked on a sob and the tears came faster.

“You’re not going to die,” Hugh reassured her with surprising vitriol, all but spitting the words. “If I have to make the Goddess bleed to heal you, I will. You’re not dying.”

El cried harder, burying her face in Hubert’s neck. 

She wanted Mother. She wanted Marta to hold her hand and Carmilla to whisper prayers like lullabies and Beren to stroke her hair, and she wanted Hubert to make everything better. But El didn’t know- this wasn’t a _cold_ or the flu, so what, what was wrong with her? Why did every inch of her skin tingle with a coldness that stung like needles? Why were her arms and chest itching?

_Why was her heart-_

El felt herself being placed down on the bed, but she hadn’t realized they’d walked that far. She startled when her burning, aching, freezing body hit sheets that she could barely feel. Distress gripped her even tighter when Hubert’s arms went away.

“I’ll be back in a second, Lady Edelgard.”

“Don’t go, Hugh, don’t go.”

She cried bitterly when he still went. El wanted him back. Hugh felt safe, Hubert was home, was Enbarr and her favorite siblings. El didn’t feel so much like she was dying when she could smell that cologne he used too much of and she could feel the hands that had tended to her bruises since childhood. Even if his voice sounded slightly off and he kept calling her ‘lady’.

Her heart beat faster at the absence and the small unfamiliarities, and that made pain wrack her body.

El screamed.

She was so busy convulsing, she didn’t even feel Hubert return, nor him tilting her head up.

What El did notice, though, was the sensation of something pouring down her throat. All she wanted to do was scream and yell and cry, but she forced herself to swallow. As she drank, the action became easier, her throat soothing at first and then more of her body. By the time she had swallowed everything that was given her, El was able to collapse down upon the bed. She was still sniffling and whimpering in pain, but no longer beside herself with pain.

She breathed slower for several moments, letting her new relief come over, until that, too, started to feel wrong.

“Hugh,” El slurred, “I can’t feel anything.”

Hubert came into the line of her vision then, looming over her head, which El could barely turn. Had he always looked that haggard? That thin in the face and his eyes that deeply set in rough sleep bruises? Could his hair have possible grown that long and unkempt in the time she’d been at school?

“No, I don’t imagine you can,” he rasped. “You will regain feeling in time. Slowly, so that you might acclimate to the… strain on your body. It has not flared up so severely in years, do you know what caused it?”

El just blinked at him, stupefied.

“Nothing to do with that artifact near your body when you collapsed?”

She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t make her body move. Instead, El whined. What was he talking about? Flares and artifacts, she could not guess what that was referencing. The last thing El remembered, she and Petra had been playing cards in her room late at night. There’d been nothing odd about it. 

But then why was Hubert here and why did everything hurt and what had Khalid looking at her like she was a ghost earlier?

Another sob welled up in El’s throat, but she swallowed it. 

If it had been nearly anyone else, she would have pulled herself together, would have fought past the numbness and the fear to act composed and dignified. But it wasn’t just anyone. It was Hubert. So instead of trying to set the world straight and figure out what was going on, El just said what she wanted to say. She made her request, knowing that Hubert would bring it to fruition, as he always had.

“I want Mother.”

“Do you?” Hubert asked, in the strangest tone El had ever heard him use. She could not make sense of it. His thin eyebrow had raised and, though his face was perfectly cool, there was something… unpleasant in his eye. El could only see one of his eyes. Why wasn’t he telling her where her mother was, why wasn't he fetching Mother?

“Is she- is she with you?” El desperately tried, because if even Hugh was acting odd... “Or Beren or Io-” or Brynhilde. Wherever Io went, Bryn went. El would give anything to be held in her eldest sister’s arms right now. Bryn had always been good at explaining things- explaining duties and complicated scripture and beautiful girls- and El was sure Bryn could explain what was going on now.

Instead, there was Hubert who pursed his lips.

“Could you answer something for me, Lady Edelgard?” he said, and El could only stare at him.

 _Lady_ , Lady Edelgard? In private? The pain was mostly gone, but El’s heart still beat so fast it ached. What had happened? What had she done, _was_ she dying? 

Or worse, in trouble?

Hubert didn’t wait for her to give her assent when he said, “Do you remember what I gave you for your fifteenth birthday?”

Hubert had been at the academy when El turned fifteen. He and Beren sent their gifts together, bought from the same eastern merchant, who had wares that hardly made it to the Empire. Beren had sent her a Srengi sword, but Hugh…

“An Alymyran board game,” she said. “We both learned how to play while you were away and then challenged each other when you came home.”

El could barely feel the scratchy magician’s glove against her skin. She might not have even noticed the fingers around her chin, pulling her head up and to the side, she was so divorced from her body. But El noticed her vision shifting, her gaze trailing up his sleeve- Hubert’s black and gold sleeve, an Officers Academy uniform.

El hadn’t processed this new question, this new shock before she gazed at Hubert’s face and saw in every vivid, horrid detail how malice overtook his expression.

“That’s very interesting,” Hubert sneered, looking at her as he never had before. “Because I don’t remember any celebrations at all, for many years. And yet, you remember one.”

Suddenly, a rush of feeling did hit El, right on her chin, right against her neck. It was cold and it burned and it crawled. The sensation came from the soft purple glow marring Hubert’s otherwise pristine, white gloves. And it hurt.

“So, why don’t you tell me. Just who exactly are you, _Lady Edelgard?_ ”

_______________________________________

Manuela’s assistant was distraught that El had been bundled out of the infirmary. After hearing that Khalid and Dimitri were well, she released them so that she could go fetch Professor Manuela and hopefully intervene. It left them standing in the hallways, unsure of what to do and utterly without purpose or bearings.

Khalid was nearly shaking. 

He’d woken up in the infirmary to the face of El, shivering and crying, hair white as death, and his own body in a type of pain he couldn’t identify. Then the Imperial bureaucrat showed up, then El was _gone_ , and there was something odd in the air that Khalid couldn’t put his finger on. 

It nagged at him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He couldn’t figure what had thrown him off balance beyond the feeling of sickness that clung to him for a long moment. Then, in a nervous gesture, Khalid let his hand fall to his hip and he noticed that his sash wasn’t there. His headscarf was also missing, but he’d chalked that up to the consequences of passing out and medical checks. His sash being missing when the rest of his uniform was impeccably intact struck Khalid as uniquely odd, though. 

There were other, similarly obvious but small… mistakes in the world around him.

Khalid looked over at Dimitri and asked the question that had been nagging at him since he first got a good look at the prince.

“Was your hair always that short?” And greasy, but that would be rude to mention.

Dimitri startled, hand shooting up to his head. He tugged on a few strands of hair and his mouth fell open. 

“Oh my,” he muttered and Khalid snorted. 

“Oh my, indeed.”

Something was deeply wrong. Unless someone had decided to sheer Dimitri for no obvious reason, something unknown was affecting them. But how? Why? 

Why the hair?

Why was El in such pain while Khalid just felt a little uncomfortable?

Shame and fear crawled up his throat like acid, and Khalid turned to look down the hallway El had disappeared into. She would be okay. He had to believe that. It was out of his hands for now, so he had to believe she would be okay. Idleness had never sat well with Khalid- and stillness had never been the way of things in Alymra- but he was used to the feeling. Very few things were inside his control. 

El’s health wasn’t inside his control.

Still. Khalid could not just stand here outside the infirmary, twiddling his thumbs with Dimitri. There had to be some way to channel his energy, and discovering how they ended up in the infirmary in the first place seemed like a good place to start.

Khalid opened his mouth to say his goodbyes to Dimitri when a deep voice came from over their shoulders.

“Your Highness.”

Khalid and Dimitri both turned, and standing down the hall from them was a man of Duscur… who Khalid didn’t recognize… dressed in the Officers Academy uniform. 

What. 

The unknown man walked closer, his eyes only on Dimitri. He bowed low when he reached them, and said, “Your Highness, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you awoke. I thought… There is no excuse. Are you well, though? Have you been discharged?”

Dimitri blinked at him stupidly, looking as puzzled as Khalid felt. When he didn’t reply after a moment, though, Khalid elbowed him in the ribs, causing the stranger to shoot him a withering look. But Dimitri didn’t seem to mind.

“Very well!” Dimitri chirped finally, smiling disarmingly. “Thank you for your concern, I have been discharged with no worries. But I hope you’ll forgive me, I don’t seem to know-”

“What exactly happened,” Khalid interrupted, crossing his arms. Dimitri could go through his niceties later, when there weren’t more pressing matters afoot than flattering every subject who came their way. “Do you know how we ended up in the infirmary? Princess Edelgard isn’t well, and I’d like to know what put her in that state.”

The stranger considered him silently for a moment, then crossed his own arms.

“His Highness, Lady Edelgard, and yourself were found collapsed in one of the garden courtyards together with the professor,” he said tonelessly. “It was hoped that you would be able to explain how you came to be in that condition, because no one could determine what happened.”

“No,” Dimitri replied in thoughtless wonder, “I have no idea. I don’t even remember being in the courtyards.”

“That is most concerning,” the man said, furrowing his eyebrows.

Khalid was inclined to agree. He didn’t like not knowing where he’d been. He didn’t like not knowing why he passed out, and he did not like not knowing why El had _white hair_ and was crying in incredible pain. That was all too concerning, reeked too much of danger.

Mom and Baba would never forgive him if he got himself killed or cursed or in a situation where they had to intervene. Not if the peace was threatened. 

But while there were probably people who wanted Khalid hurt or dead somewhere out in the world, he could not fathom why they would want El and Dimitri, too. Unless it was about… borders? The Empire and the Kingdom uniting, Leicester and Almyra united? But who wouldn’t want increased cooperation between the different factions… 

The Church, maybe? But that didn’t make sense! They hadn’t always been inviting about Mom and Baba’s reforms, but never outright hostile. Unless something had changed.

Before Khalid could contemplate that horrific idea too much, Dimitri spoke and interrupted his thought process.

“Do you know which professor?” he asked, and Khalid could have hit himself for missing something that obvious. Perhaps the professor was trying to protect them; maybe Seteth, Manuela, or Hanneman knew what had happened.

The stranger uncrossed his arms and gave an odd hum, though, as if he thought that question was very strange.

“ _The p-_ Byleth Eisner,” he finally said.

It was Khalid’s turn to startle.

“The captain’s kid?” he said, while Dimitri looked back to the infirmary.

“Oh, they’re still asleep. But ‘professor’? I did not know they taught. Perhaps I will have to seek their guidance, Byleth’s swordfaire is without competition.”

While Dimitri prattled, Khalid kept looking at the man across from them. He saw how Dimitri’s words made the stranger’s mouth fall open. Distress and confusion flashed across his face before smoothing out into simple consternation, but he did not seem well or happy. 

“Your Highness…” he muttered, but Dimitri interrupted him.

“But that reminds me of another thing I do not know. My good man, what is your name?”

And then the stranger gasped as if he’d been struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES. The much speculated on counterparts are in the original timeline, and they are having just as bad a time. I plan to litter these interludes in each time we cycle through the regular povs. Just to keep up with what's going on back home. I feel kinda bad that Dimitri doesn't have an identity defining alternate name for me to distinguish the two versions by, but oh well. We'll call him Cool Ranch Dimitri, to contrast with the original flavor.
> 
> Also, CR Flavors all have their DLC haircuts, and the reason I haven't mentioned it in the other dimension is totally because Dimitri specifically has been to busy to notice, and Claude and El didn't have their hair styled while asleep. Totally not a continuity error on my part. Totally.
> 
> I feel like I'm re-writing The Mirror from Trek TOS in some ways, wherein normal Kirk blends in all nicely and alternate (eviiillll) Kirk blows his cover instantly. It's tbh one of my fav gags where they just cut to Spock shoving shoving Evil Kirk in the Space Brig, and I feel we might be going in that direction, because these kids are not as good at keeping secrets as the originals. Delightful!
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled Original Flavor plot soon. In the meantime, any comments and/or kudos you might feel so inclined to leave would be greatly appreciated. Thank you so much!


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